


Christmas fics

by ineffable-snowman (schneemann)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables, Christmas, Mostly Fluff, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 21,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21633754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schneemann/pseuds/ineffable-snowman
Summary: Some Christmas ficlets that I did for the advent calendar prompts by @drawlight on tumblr.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 45





	1. Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> I will post some ficlets here that are inspired by @drawlights advent calendar prompt list. I don't expect to fill all of them, though, because I'm such a slow writer. Hope you enjoy the Christmas fluff!  
> (Please feel free to point out any grammar or vocabulary mistakes because English is not my first language.)
> 
> T-rating because Crowley swears sometimes.

Christmas was a hard time for a demon. Too much love, faith and generosity in the air. Over the centuries Crowley had tried a lot of things to weaken the Christmas spirit but so far it had always backfired.

“How about lust?” Hastur suggested.

Lust. Right. That was a thing. Crowley considered himself an accomplished tempter but lust wasn’t his strongest sin. It was often tedious, working for several weeks or even months on just one human. In Crowley’s opinion, the low profit did not warrant all the effort, especially since forgiveness of (human) sins had become the new heavenly policy. But Hastur was still big on lust, and what were you to do if a Duke of Hell gave you an order?

Crowley gave it some serious thought. How to maximize profit while minimizing his personal effort? The goal was, of course, to corrupt not just one soul but to spread lust as far as possible. Maybe design new revealing clothes? Inspire a famous author to write dirty poetry? Convince the cooks to put aphrodisiacs into their Christmas dinners? But all of this needed more time, more careful preparation. Christmas was looming on the horizon and Crowley grew desperate. Maybe just invent a crazy new ritual which involved lots of…lusty things? From Crowley’s millennia of experience on earth he had learned that nothing ever was too crazy for humans to not at least give it a try. So he came up with a ridiculous, desperate last minute plan. He just picked up some random plant on his way and presented it at some manor houses that were currently en vogue.

“You hang it up and then you have to kiss someone if you run into them under the…thing.”

“Mistletoe,” the lady added helpfully.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Crowley lowered his voice dangerously. “Because if you don’t do it, you will…you will…have bad luck. For a full year.” There. The humans would be stupid now not to kiss under the mistletoe.

“Right.”

Crowley had no idea how it had spread so fast but when three days later he went to a fancy party in London, there were already several humans kissing under mistletoe branches.

Aziraphale came to stand next to him. He was glowing with happiness and holiness. The angel always enjoyed Christmas immensely. Not least because he usually could take the days around Christmas off because there wasn’t much to do for him - the humans did all the good deeds themselves. “Isn’t it lovely?” He nodded at a kissing couple.

“Lovely? What?” Crowley said in confusion (and, yes, slight shock). “I know you enjoy some earthly pleasures but I didn’t think you were going for lust now?”

“Lust? Oh, Crowley, really now. Can’t you feel all the love blooming here?”

Well, shit. “Nah, pretty sure it’s lust.”

“I definitely feel flashes of love everywhere.”

Holy shit. “Could still turn into lust, though.”

“ _I_ think it is a lovely idea. It truly is amazing what wonderful things the humans come up with again and again, isn’t it?”

“N-hmm.”

“Oh, look.” Aziraphale was pointing at the ceiling above them with a delighted smile.

Shit, shit, shit. Crowley was pretty sure the mistletoe hadn’t been there before.

“Well, I suppose we should try to blend in with the humans and their holiday rituals,” Aziraphale said reasonably.

“Or we could just set it on fire. Could set the whole building on fire.”

“My dear boy, you will do no such thing. I still haven’t tried the hot cider. Also, it’s said to bring bad luck for a year if you refuse to kiss under the mistletoe.”

“A year isn’t really such a long time for us.”

“Still, if bad luck can be avoided, it would be unreasonable not to do it.”

Crowley shrugged. “Sure, fine, yeah, why not, better safe than sorry, what could go wrong, eh?”

Aziraphale smiled warmly. “Wonderful.”

He took Crowley’s hand.

Crowley stood stock-still.

Aziraphale slowly lifted Crowley’s hand to his lips.

Crowley stopped breathing.

There was a very short, very soft brush of lips on the back of his hand.

Aziraphale threw him a furtive glance from under his lashes and a quick smile, then he let go of Crowley’s limp hand and hurried off, possibly to get that hot cider. Crowley’s heart decided to make up for the lack of breath. His tingling hand sank slowly down.

The thing was, he wasn’t very good with lust but he was even worse with love.

He felt thoroughly thwarted.

(Nevertheless, he reported the invention of the mistletoe tradition as a huge success to Head Office and declared it a spread of lust so impressive indeed that even an angel had succumbed to kissing under the mistletoe. He failed to mention, however, that said angel had kissed him.)


	2. Snow

As stated before, Christmas was a hard time for a demon. _Seriously_ , it _was_. And as if all the Christmas spirit wasn’t bad enough, it was in winter. Which was Crowley’s fault, really. He had covered up Jesus’s real birth date and shifted the holiday into winter in a desperate attempt to dampen the Christmas spirit like that. Which had, again, backfired. The humans decided to huddle together for warmth, decorated their houses so everything was nice and cozy, invented fairy lights (“The high power consumption!” Crowley tried to talk it down) and hot drinks (“All the alcohol! And the sugar! Gluttony!” Crowley said desperately). He suspected Aziraphale had had a hand in several of them.

Anyway, winter. Terrible time of year for a demon, especially a snakey demon. The cold was bad enough and made his extremities stiff. He constantly felt the need to curl up in a hidden place and sleep for days or even weeks. Unfortunately, that had not been an option for the last centuries because his bosses would not be amused if he just slept through the time of year when demonic intervention was the most necessary to foil all the good deeds everywhere.

Then the ice. The slippery roads were a nightmare. Using the Bentley was not an option because one winter it had gotten a dent when a stupid human had slithered into him with his car, and _that was not happening again_. Going on foot was no fun either. It always felt like he completely lost control of his limbs, and after several bone fractures over the years, he sometimes, when the roads were really bad, transformed into a snake to keep his bones safe. Also, slithering is what snakes do, right? Then there had been the incident when he stuck frozen to the icy road for over an hour until the police and vets came to get him, which had been almost as embarrassing as his reaction to seeing snow for the first time. Not only were those devious little things cold and wet but they were falling from above and were such a pure white that it had scared him shitless and he had hidden for hours.

Aziraphale of course liked snow because it was “lovely” and looked “peaceful” and felt so “soft”. Ha, soft! Try getting hit in the snake head with a gigantic snowball – nothing soft about that. (Yes, snowballs had been Crowley’s invention to spread aggressiveness and chaos around Christmas time. Yes, he regretted that one, too.)

Snowballs were outright evil (evil in the really bad sense) but snow angels (most definitely Aziraphale’s invention) were almost as annoying. The first time Crowley had come across a snow angel, he had been convinced Aziraphale had left him a message and he had run around the country in a frenzied zigzag course trying to follow the signs, which had ended up with him collapsing, close to discorporation, in a pub in the Scottish Highlands.

When after the almost apocalypse he was finally free and did not have to report to Hell anymore, he considered spending the winter months in Australia, his favourite country.

“But Christmas time in England is so _wonderful_ ,” Aziraphale said.

“It’s _cold_. No idea what God was thinking when She invented ice and snow.”

“Crowley, you -”

“Can’t judge the Almighty, yeah, yeah, I know.”

“Actually, I was going to say you would not be cold if you put on warm clothes for once in your life.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “I have standards,” he mimicked Aziraphale in a high-pitched voice.

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Yes, well. Would be too bad if you did not look fashionable the next time you get stuck to the road. With all the humans carrying their clever phones with them now, there are sure to be pictures everywhere. I hear someone has invented _selfies_.”

“That’s just mean,” Crowley hissed. “And by the way, it’s only a selfie if you take a picture of yourself.”

“Oh, really? Fascinating,” that bastard said in a tone that made it clear that he knew perfectly what a selfie was (might have something to do with Crowley pestering him _for years_ to finally take a selfie together). “Put at least a scarf on.” Aziraphale pushed a nasty piece of tartan cloth into his hands.

“I’m not wearing that abomination. Let’s go to Australia.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I’m sorry, dear, but I really would like to spend Christmas in London.” He gave Crowley an imploring look. “Maybe we can compromise? Go to Australia in January or February?”

Crowley could go there alone, have a nice Christmas, relaxing on a hot beach, drinking cool cocktails, meet other snakes… and Aziraphale could spend Christmas alone in London… Well. “Alright then, I’ll book us a flight for January.”

“First class, please. And make sure they serve a decent menu.”

“Of course.” He could always kidnap an award-winning chef. “You make sure we have enough hot drinks for the next month.”

Aziraphale promised and then he threatened Crowley a bit more with a woolen hat and mitts.


	3. Nutcracker

Aziraphale had the easier job. Influencing a child to be nice when you had the threat of Santa not bringing Christmas presents as an ace in your sleeve was not exactly craftsmanship. Crowley on the other hand was at the end of her tether. Every little suggestion was met with a “But Brother Francis says I won’t get Christmas presents if I’m not nice” and a sad pout.

“You’re not playing fair,” Crowley snarled when Aziraphale came to visit her for a nightcap after she had put Warlock to bed. She nevertheless accepted the flower that Aziraphale brought her today (as he did every day). “Roses normally don’t bloom in winter, you know?” she grumbled while putting it into a vase.

“Oh? What about _Lo, how a rose e'er blooming_?” Aziraphale actually started humming the carol.

“Stop that. That is the stupidest Christmas carol ever, even worse than _The little boy that Santa Claus forgot_.” Crowley shuddered in disgust and chugged her Whiskey. Five more Christmases left.

“Anyway, it’s working. Warlock is showing to be not just evil. He obviously has a good side, too.”

“He’s not _really_ nice if he’s just doing it for the presents, is he? Rather egoistical, wouldn’t you say?”

Aziraphale squinted his eyes. “We shall see.”

So it was a competition then.

Crowley tried everything. She almost got him after watching _Home Alone_ together when she tempted him to try out some of Kevin’s tricks. But the fear of not getting any Christmas presents proved too strong again. She tried to make him throw snowballs at the birds that Aziraphale was feeding. She taught him Christmas carols with rude words. She suggested using the garlands to shackle someone. She tempted him to play with fire. Hopeless. He was abnormally well-behaved. 

It was finally a wooden nutcracker that did the trick. Mr. Dowling had gotten it at one of his Christmas parties and had left it right next to the rubbish bin to be thrown away because he had no use for nutcrackers. Warlock had discovered it and brought it to Crowley.

“Nanny, look what I found! What is it?”

“Aaaah. That, my dear, is an old torturing machine.”

“Really?” Warlock’s eyes turned big with excitement.

“Of course. Here, let me show you. You put a finger here,” Crowley took the nutcracker and indicated the mouth of it, “and then – wooops.” She pulled the lever down with a click.

“Ouchie,” said Warlock, grinning at her.

“Exactly. Want to try it out?”

Warlock dashed off with his torturing machine and Crowley was oddly proud.

***

“That was your demonic doing, wasn’t it?” Aziraphale raised an accusing finger when he ran across Crowley in the hallway. A finger, around which a band-aid with colourful little dinosaurs was wrapped. In his other arm he carried a basket with mistletoe and holly to decorate the house with.

“It was his own free will. I merely showed him the possibilities. Guess he’s not such a _good_ boy after all.”

“Don’t be so smug. It _hurt_. Just so you know.”

“Don’t make a fuss, angel. You can heal a bruise in no time.”

“Yes, but not in front of the boy. I had to wait _ten minutes_ until I was alone.”

Crowley shrugged in sympathy. She had not expected Warlock to go for an angelic victim.

“ _But_ he showed remorse immediately, apologised and even gave me this sweet band-aid. Which obviously proves that he _is_ good.”

“Nhm,” Crowley made a noncommittal sound. “You need help putting these up?” She pointed at Aziraphale’s basket. “Seeing as you’re impeded by your…serious injury?”

“I suppose it would be helpful in keeping up appearances.”

“Of course.” Crowley took some holly from the basket and attached it to the staircase railing. She did it without any miracles because she wanted to make good use of the little time that they had left. Only five more Christmases.

When they had finished decorating, Aziraphale took one more flower from the basket: a Christmas Rose. “Look, I found you a rose that blooms in winter. May I?”

Crowley could only nod when Aziraphale approached and gingerly pinned the flower into her hair. The white flower did not really go with her usual style but she reasoned that it was only fair if Aziraphale had to use dinosaur band-aid. “A Christmas Rose is not technically a rose,” she said because the closeness and Aziraphale’s gentle hands and the festive decorations were a bit too much for her.

“Oh, shush, you-”

“Nanny!” Warlock came sprinting into the hall. “Look what I can do!” He waved the nutcracker in the one hand and a walnut in the other. “Brother Francis showed me. It’s not a torturing machine. It’s a nutcracker.”

“Really? How boring.”

“It’s not boring, it cracks nuts open. Come on!” Warlock grabbed her hand and pulled her along.

“Right, then. Let’s go torture some nuts. I hope they scream in agony when we brutally break their helpless bodies.”

“Now, that’s quite enough,” Aziraphale said. “You’re going to give the poor boy nightmares.”

But Warlock was giggling, and Crowley thought the boy was on a good way – or rather, on a normal, a _human_ way.


	4. Cranberry

“So, I just had the most curious phone call,” Crowley said by way of greeting when he entered the bookshop.

“Oh?” Aziraphale perked up, ready to hear a funny anecdote.

“Madame Tracy called because Shadwell refused to eat the cake she had made.”

That was indeed most curious. “Why would anyone refuse to eat cake?” And why would anyone call Crowley about that? Between the two of them, Aziraphale considered himself the cake expert.

“It was a cranberry cake.”

 _Oh dear_.

“And _somebody_ told him, cranberries were demon nipples. So he refused to eat the cake, and now assumes Madame Tracy is in league with the devil or whatever.”

Aziraphale chuckled nervously. “That sounds absurd.”

“Yeah. So. Why’d you tell him that?”

Aziraphale huffed. Pretending otherwise was obviously not an option anymore. “I once met up with him in a lovely little café to discuss the funding of the Witchfinder Army and, well. There was only one cranberry muffin left. So…”

“So you did the only logical thing.”

“Well, yes. I can assure you, they had _very_ good cranberry muffins. It’s such a pity the café had to close. I tried to influence them to stay, of course, but Gabriel-”

“Yeah, whatever. What _I_ take from this is that, contrary to Shadwell-” Crowley’s brows rose exaggeratedly over the rim of his glasses “-you obviously like demon nipples. Like to… nibble on the nipples.” 

Aziraphale spluttered and could feel heat crawl up his cheeks. How indecent! “I – if you must know, I actually said they were sun-dried demon _eyes_. But Sergeant Shadwell seems to have mixed it up.”

“Hm, he does seem to be quite preoccupied with nipples, doesn’t he?”

“Yes. Exactly.” Aziraphale nodded emphatically. Then he smiled. “I certainly like demon eyes, though.”

To Aziraphale’s great satisfaction it was now Crowley’s turn to blush.


	5. Fire

“I’ve decorated the bookshop,” Aziraphale told him on the telephone while Crowley was on his way to enjoy the chaos at a Christmas Sale. He hummed occasionally while Aziraphale described everything in great detail.

“…and I’ve put garlands on the stairway railing, plastic ones because you know the real thing always runs dry so fast, but I added real fir cones and holly, so it looks quite lovely now. And I’ve finally had the fireplace repaired.”

The brakes screeched and Crowley wheeled the car around. The Bentley did a little hiccough and then made the worst possible song selection.

Aziraphale continued talking while Crowley sped through Oxford Street. “…so you could come over tonight, if you wanted to. The bookshop is warm again, no more need for piles of blankets…”

“On my way,” Crowley said through gritted teeth, and stopped at one of the many playhouses in Soho to grab a fire extinguisher.

He burst into the bookshop, ignored Aziraphale’s surprised shouting and pointed the fire extinguisher towards the fireplace like a gun. He had threatened that blasted thing several times and made his point very clear! What was it thinking, just accepting a fire again?

He was only able to focus on Aziraphale’s words when he had the fire stopped completely.

“Are you mad?”

“Are _you_ mad?”

“My books!”

“Exactly!”

“What were you thinking?”

“What were _you_ thinking?”

They had not had a real argument or raised their voices since the events of the summer, but suddenly they were shouting at each other.

“Do you know how many first editions you have just ruined?”

“Just restore them with a miracle!”

“No, you can’t just restore everything, Crowley! Some of them are beyond miracles! And you know how many of them were signed? You can’t just restore an autograph, it wouldn’t be the _same_.”

“Right, who do you need? Just tell me their names and I’ll go to Hell and get their damned souls to sign the books for you again! Whose autograph do you want? Just tell me and I’ll get it for you! But don’t make a fire in your bookshop, for heaven’s sake!”

“That’s completely ridiculous! What are you even on about?”

“It’s a firetrap – your bloody bookshop – thousands of old paper sheets – like, just a spark could burn the whole thing down in a minute! And no fire precautions _at all_! You _know_ discorporation wouldn’t just be a bit of nasty paper work now! You don’t think Heaven would just issue you with a new body, do you? It would be forever now! I mean – forever gone from Earth! Forever – argh! And just because of some stupid books!”

“If you think my bookshop and my books are so stupid, you are free to leave.” Aziraphale sniffed and bent down to examine the damaged soggy books. He made distressed little noises, and Crowley lost it. With a curse, he threw the fire extinguisher at the fireplace and added a real demonic curse in order to condemn the fireplace to smother any flame that dared to ignite there. Then he ran out of the bookshop.

He might have surpassed the tempo limit a little when he raced aimlessly through London, cursing at Aziraphale’s stupid books and his carelessness, at the never-ending “Thank God it’s Christmas”, at the stupid humans who had decided it was a good idea to make a fire inside a home (it had been Aziraphale who had given them the flame in the first place, even then not giving a fucking thought about any self-protection, stupid, stupid angel!), he cursed at Heaven and Hell, at winter (why the cold?), at Christmas (why the candles?), and at himself, for being so frightened by the idea of losing Aziraphale – again and for real this time. 

He needed several hours to calm down until he could think clearly again. The whole thing was a mess. _He_ was a mess. Had he overreacted? Probably. Aziraphale had survived centuries in his firetrap. But there had always been the option of getting a new body if anything happened. Now, however, they were just as vulnerable as the humans. And Crowley could not lose Aziraphale. But maybe in trying to prevent it, he had done exactly that. Aziraphale was never going to forgive him for damaging his precious books. Also, he would not just give up cosy fireplaces and candles just because Crowley could not get a grip on himself. Aziraphale loved nothing more than sitting in front of the fireplace with a good book and a hot cocoa, and he would never celebrate Christmas without candles.

It was hopeless but that did not mean that Crowley gave up.

He spent the next days hunting for books: very old books, special editions, signed copies, new publications that sounded like Aziraphale would like them. Then he bought fairy lights in all lengths, colours and forms, and a bunch of LED candles. Finally he added two fire extinguishers into the overloaded Bentley.

He lurked close to the bookshop until he saw Aziraphale leave. Then he acted quickly. He placed the fire extinguishers strategically but not so they would spoil the cosy atmosphere in the bookshop. He piled the meticulously wrapped books onto the armchair (the only empty surface) and added, in a last minute decision, a scribbled “Sorry” on the topmost wrapping paper. Then he replaced all the real candles with LED candles and switched them on. Lastly he hung up the fairy lights, which took a bit longer because the bloody things didn’t behave. He was just shouting at one to let him go, when Aziraphale entered the shop. Crowley froze, wrapped up in a string full of blinking little stars.

“Er,” said Aziraphale.

“Right,” said Crowley. “This is… just an experiment.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale.

“You don’t like it? Okay, I’ll just remove all the – all of it, then -” He made to do exactly that but got tangled up in the string of lights and stumbled. Aziraphale caught his arm to steady him.

“Careful, dear.”

“I – I got you books. I know it’s not the same, but…” He gave an awkward shrug into the general direction of the armchair.

Aziraphale followed his gaze and his eyes lit up. “Oh! That’s really – but let me help you out of these first.”

It was embarrassing and not at all how Crowley had planned it but at least Aziraphale did not seem to hold a grudge against him.

“You know, I like some of them,” Aziraphale said once he had freed Crowley and taken a good look around at the newly decorated bookshop. “But all in all it seems a bit…much. It’s very bright. Feels rather like a lamp store than a place to live in – or celebrate Christmas in.”

“Then just remove some of them?” Crowley suggested cautiously. “Or…you could come to my place for Christmas? If you wanted to celebrate together, that is…?”

“Of course I want to celebrate together.” Aziraphale looked intently at him and Crowley was glad he was wearing his sunglasses. “But, forgive me for saying so, your flat is not exactly a…place to celebrate Christmas in.”

“I can decorate! I’ll even put up those tasteless cherub baubles! And real candles should be fine there. I’ll – I’ll go to Christmas Mass with you if you just-!”

“Out of the question. I will not have you burn your feet on Christmas. And completely unnecessarily on top of that.”

“Better my feet than your whole body,” Crowley mumbled.

“I don’t want you to go to church on my account,” Aziraphale continued. “And I absolutely don’t want you to go to Hell. I’ve been thinking… maybe we could go somewhere else. Together.” He said the last word so softly that Crowley would have thought he had just imagined it were it not for Aziraphale’s frightened and hopeful expression.

“You mean…?”

“I mean move out of London. Just for the holidays at first. But if we liked it…maybe longer?”

“Oh,” Crowley said, and then he could only nod. (He may have been crying a little but no one would ever know because he was wearing his glasses.)


	6. Sleigh bells

Crowley liked musicians, especially the chaotic geniuses, the ones who experimented with sounds and musical structure and caused scandals at premieres. He was always impressed with the creativity of the humans (no comparison to the boring celestial harmonies). Hell embraced every new musical style and the condemning reviews in the papers, believing the nonsense that music could corrupt humans. There were just two kinds of music Hell did not endorse: church music and Christmas carols. There was not much to be done about church music because it usually took place where demons could hardly interfere: in a church. Christmas carols however proved to be a real problem because they were so popular and made even people who usually weren’t big on religion sing or hum along to lyrics celebrating God, Heaven and angels.

Thus Crowley was assigned a very difficult job: thwart Christmas carols.

Now, he knew from experience that banning something might work with angels and demons but never with humans. So influencing politicians to make rules to ban Christmas songs was not an option. Neither was influencing the musicians to just stop composing and playing Christmas songs because Christmas music was a very profitable business.

He needed to do something to spoil the songs, something so no one would want to listen to them anymore. Make the music unbearable. Right. What was the most horrible sound in the world? What did nobody ever want to hear? Something that would drive humans away from Christmas songs forever?

*

_a few centuries earlier_

_Crowley was a wreck. He was cold and could hardly move his limbs, his butt hurt from hours and hours on a bumpy uncomfortable sleigh and the bloody horses did not listen to him. But worst of all was the ringing in his ears. He wanted to scream and rage at the blasted sleigh bells, which would just jingle and jangle and jingle and jangle and… Hours on the road and he thought he was going mad. What he would give for just one minute of silence!_

_It was already dark when he finally arrived at the tavern. He stumbled off his sleigh and let a human handle the horses. When he staggered inside, his ears were still ringing. Aziraphale was already there, sitting alone at a table with a huge jug of beer in front of him. It was probably not his first as his slurred speech suggested._

_“Crowley, how’re you?”_

_Crowley just made a pained noise and sank down opposite Aziraphale. “This is all a nightmare. The – the snow and the horses and the fucking sleigh bells. Why can’t we be assigned to North Africa again? Aaah.” He covered his ears with his hands but the ringing was inside his head. “I hate my corporation, why does it have to do that?”_

_“I can hear it, too, doesn’t go away,” Aziraphale said miserably. “I think I need more alcohol.”_

_“Yeah, me too.”_

_Aziraphale waved the bartender over and ordered some more beer for the both of them. It did not really help with the echo of the sleigh bells inside his head but at least he felt warmer after the fourth jug._

_“Don’ wanna go out tomorrow again,” Aziraphale said._

_“We can jussst ssstay here.”_

_“But the assignment!” Aziraphale threw him a very sad look._

_“If there was a sssnow ssstorm…”_

_“Can’t infffl… can’t – can’t make the weather…”_

_“Mmhmm, ssshould’ve done advanced training…”_

_They ended up influencing the conditions by staggering dead drunk outside in the middle of the night and piling up heaps of snow on the roads around the tavern so that there was no way to leave tomorrow. They also both ended up with a serious case of pneumonia but everything was better than being on a sleigh again._

*

the present

“So if people hear sleigh bells, they will think _ah, snow, winter, Christmas_ , and just like that – ta-daaa, perfect Christmas song.”

“Makes sense.”

*

It was a huge mistake.

In fact, it worked exactly how Crowley had told the human musician it would work: people heard sleigh bells and thought _ah, snow, winter, Christmas_. What he had not planned was that the humans would _like_ it. It was just two supernatural entities, who felt tortured by the horrendous sound of the sleigh bells. They could not enjoy a stroll at the Christmas fair anymore because Christmas songs blared from everywhere. Same with Christmas shopping because in every department store you could hear the dreadful sleigh bells in the background. 

Crowley had not dared to confess that one to Aziraphale yet. When some clever human invented the Walkman, Crowley immediately purchased two and gave one to Aziraphale along with definitely sleigh-bell-free tapes as a very early Christmas present.

A few years later he fell out with Queen because of that.

“You can’t be serious. Honestly, don’t do it.”

“Most rock bands record at least one Christmas song,” Brian May said.

“Also, I wrote that song, you know,” Roger Taylor said much less reasonably and much more offended.

“Yeah, no problem, it’s good, a good song – just… just leave the sleigh bells out. Please.”

“Sleigh bells just belong in a Christmas song,” Brian said.

“And if you don’t like it, you don’t have to listen to it,” Roger added.

“You bet! And you know what – if you really go through with that sleigh bells shit, I will _never_ listen to any of your songs ever again!”

“Empty threat,” Roger said.

“No, I’m dead serious! I swear it – I swear it on – on – on… on my Bentley!”

Freddie gave an unimpressed smile and raised one eyebrow.

And that is how it happened.


	7. Silent Night

When Aziraphale heard Bach’s Christmas Oratory for the first time in 1734, he was almost moved to tears. The retelling of Jesus’s birth was, of course, not in strict accordance with the facts but no human had ever got it right, which was quite understandable as Aziraphale was the only being on earth who had been there. Still, he felt that Johann Sebastian Bach had come really close – his music did. The at times jubilant, at times dignified music did not exactly depict the hectic rush of that day but it reflected the meaning of Christmas.

Aziraphale could not understand how a human could come up with such heavenly music without angelic intervention. But then again, it was so much more powerful music than the celestial harmonies he had had to practice in the heavenly choir for eternities. He wouldn’t want one of the angels to interfere with Bach’s creativity. And Aziraphale himself – well, after some initial reservations he had come to enjoy human music very much and had even tried to learn the gamba for a few years but he certainly would not have been able to inspire Bach.

When Aziraphale learned that there were five more parts of the Christmas Oratory, he was utterly delighted and could not wait to come back for the next. He immediately told Crowley when they met up to share a Christmas dinner: “So, your trying to get Bach to drink too much obviously did not work. He still composes the most sublime music. You _have_ to come and listen to the other parts of the Christmas Oratory.”

“Ha, nice try, angel. Trying to lure me into a church with promises of _divine music_. Not gonna happen.”

Aziraphale spluttered. “I didn’t mean to suggest – I – I didn’t think… well. I suppose…you can’t come. Pity.”

“Yeah, not really interested in church music anyway. I prefer his dances.”

Aziraphale pulled a face. Dances were always so indecent, wild and chaotic! Of course Crowley liked them, and although Aziraphale secretly enjoyed some of the slower ones, he would never admit it out loud.

***

The second part of Bach’s Oratory was just as good as the first. The soprano who sang Aziraphale’s role flattered him quite a bit (because this exquisite recitative was so much more dignified than his babbled words to the frightened shepherds had been). Crowley couldn’t stop laughing when Aziraphale told him and threatened to make a few suggestions to Bach on how to change the angel’s singing part. Aziraphale in turn threatened to never share a Christmas meal again if Crowley really went through with that.

The third part was just as beautiful. When Aziraphale left the church afterwards, he saw a very familiar demonic figure quickly disappear into a side street.

“What were you doing so close to the church?” he confronted Crowley later.

“No worries, no official assignment at the moment. Just thought I’d try to hear a bit of what the hustle and bustle is all about.”

“Oh.”

Of course Crowley was curious. He always wanted to learn about all the new human things. The idea that Crowley never would get to hear Bach’s Christmas Oratory and only could lurk outside the church suddenly made Aziraphale unbearably sad. There just was no way. He briefly thought about asking the flutist, whom Aziraphale had helped when he had almost lost his youngest kid to illness, to give them a private performance but you needed a whole orchestra, a choir and soloists for that opus. You needed the sound and the atmosphere of a church to fully appreciate it.

“Don’t look so sad,” Crowley said with a sneer. “I don’t gripe when you refuse to dance.”

(It was a blatant lie because Crowley did gripe. Every time.)

***

Aziraphale tried to tell Crowley about the music in every detail. He even acquired a copy of the autograph so Crowley could at least study the sheet music. (Crowley told him to stick it up his xxxx, which had Aziraphale in a cranky mood for three years. He was only mollified when Crowley apologised by giving him a lovely wooden box with intricate carvings which he could use for his most treasured autographs.)

Then people forgot about Johann Sebastian Bach, to Aziraphale’s great regret.

It was only in the second half of the nineteenth century that the humans slowly rediscovered Bach’s work and fully appreciated his genius. Over the years Aziraphale went to three more performances of the Christmas Oratory in Germany and found it to be just as touching as the first time. He even tried to influence the churches in London to play it around Christmas time, and hung up posters in his shop to advertise for it. By the turn of the century, Aziraphale had been able to make it a habit to see the Christmas Oratory once a year. And the humans had invented something new, something genius: a gramophone. Aziraphale’s first thought had been that Crowley would now finally be able to listen to the music that was only played in churches.

The thing was just: They did not talk anymore. Had not, in fact, talked for decades. Of course, in the earlier days they had not seen each other for much longer periods of time but since they had both moved to London, they had seen each other at least once a year. Until that terrible day in 1862 and that stupid fight.

After two years of silence from Crowley, Aziraphale had tentatively reached out. He sent a short note, which was left unanswered. Then he sent a longer letter, in which he told Crowley about a new play he wanted to see and invited him to come along. No reply either, which was rather rude, wasn’t it? Growing impatient (and, yes, maybe also a bit worried) Aziraphale had gone to Crowley’s flat only to find that Crowley had put up wards that were meant to keep humans (and probably angels and demons, too) out, because when he approached the flat, he suddenly had so many other things on his mind that he absolutely needed to do _right now_. Aziraphale cleared his head. He probably could have burst through the wards with a very powerful angelic miracle but it did not seem the right thing to do if Crowley did not want him there. Crowley had never rejected him before. It was a strange feeling. It _hurt_.

Aziraphale regularly (once a year) went past Crowley’s flat to check if the demonic wards were still in place. They always were. He never caught a glimpse of Crowley in London, didn’t even hear about any demonic deeds. Heaven replied to his enquiry that, yes, the demon Crowley was still stationed on earth but apparently inactive at the moment. Heaven was pleased. Aziraphale was… not. He was sometimes annoyed and sometimes hurt and therefore decided to learn the gavotte. It was one of his best decisions ever. He not only learned to dance but he also made human friends. He _enjoyed_ himself.

But then the human friends grew old and fragile and died, the gavotte went out of style and the gramophone was invented and Aziraphale yearned to see Crowley again. He wrote a very long letter, in which he explained himself, apologised and told Crowley that he missed him. He called him “my dear friend”, even though his hands were shaking in fear when he wrote the lines.

As he could not risk the letter falling into the wrong hands, he delivered it personally. He forced his mind not to get distracted when he approached the flat. But when he was about to throw the letter into the letter box, he noticed that it was already full. With a quick miracle he opened it, and there were dozens of old letters, among them the two Aziraphale had sent years ago. Crowley had never even opened them. Aziraphale stared at the dirty windows that had not been cleaned in years. Crowley must have left London. Probably gone to America. Because America seemed a place Crowley would enjoy and fit in. Without so much as a word of farewell.

Aziraphale carefully selected the three letters he had written and took them home where he burned them. 

He considered taking up one of the new dances of the Twentieth Century but then there was a war going on, and then people had hardly recovered and there was another war, maybe even worse than the first. Crowley had always said the Fourteenth Century had been the worst but the Twentieth Century seemed to surpass it. It was unbelievable what humans were capable of doing to each other.

Fortunately, there were still _some_ good humans. A brave woman recruited Aziraphale to help her fight against the Nazi spies in London.

But then she turned out to be a double-agent.

In all that horror and chaos it was a demon that proved that there was still good in the world.

Crowley had been so brave and brilliant and, good Lord, quite dashing with that fetching hat, but most of all he had been _kind._ Aziraphale followed him in a daze, through the destroyed church and to a black automobile parked in front of it. The doors opened at a gesture from Crowley, and Aziraphale gingerly climbed inside, still clutching the bag with the books.

It was surreal, speeding through the dark and empty streets of London. Sometimes they heard a bomb detonate in the distance. Crowley drove them in silence and Aziraphale was lost for words because his heart felt too full to speak.

“Here we are.” They stopped in front of the bookshop.

“Ah, lovely.” Aziraphale struggled for words. “Can I… invite you in for a drink? As a – a thank you? ”

“Probably better get into a bunker.”

“Oh, I have one just under the bookshop. For the books.”

“The books. Yeah. ’Course.”

“There’s also a nice couch.”

“Right.” Crowley finally stepped out of the car and followed Aziraphale into the bookshop. He had moved his favourite books and his most prized possessions downstairs into the bunker (which meant that half the bookshop was empty now).

He showed Crowley down and then hurried through the bookshop to get two glasses and the best wine he had. When he came downstairs, Crowley was already lounging on the couch, his legs dangling over the armrest. With a casual wave of his hand he snapped a few candles on.

“Oh. That’s – that’s lovely. Thank you.” Aziraphale poured them wine, all the while babbling about the wine, the candles, his books… Then there was another faint detonation in the distance and he winced and stopped with his inconsequential chatter. There were so many other things he wanted to say:

_I don’t want another war. I want this horror to finally end. I don’t understand why Heaven doesn’t intervene._

_I’m so glad you came. Where have you been all those years? I missed you so much. I love you._

He remained silent because he did not know how to say these things. He did not know if these things could even be said, probably shouldn’t even be _thought_. And yet – in the midst of a human war he felt save here in the bunker together with Crowley. Save from human bombs, from Hell’s wrath and Heaven’s righteous fury.

Suddenly Aziraphale had an idea on how to thank Crowley for what he had done today. Not that there was any worthy payoff but it could be at least a nice gesture, he hoped.

“I have to show you something.” Excitedly he snapped the gramophone down into the bunker. Finally, finally he could introduce Crowley to that beautiful music he had missed. It felt oddly fitting to play that music for Crowley tonight when he had walked on consecrated ground. “Now, this is a wonderful human invention, called a -”

“I know what a gramophone is,” Crowley interrupted him a bit rudely. “But I’m surprised you own one.”

“Well, they are quite useful if you don’t have the time or the energy to see a concert, or if they don’t play your favourite music – anyway, what I wanted to show you was _this_.” He proudly produced the record of Bach’s Christmas Oratory, put it onto the gramophone and sat down to watch Crowley closely, wanting to see every reaction when he heard the jubilant music for the first time. The timpani and trumpets of the opening chorus drowned out the distant rumble of another bomb going off.

But Crowley did not look impressed or like he enjoyed it, quite the contrary. He grimaced and chugged down another glass of the good wine that really should be savoured more.

“You – you don’t like it?” Aziraphale asked worriedly. It was disappointing. He had meant to make it something special. Crowley had so often introduced him to new things, now he had wanted to show him something new in return. That Crowley so obviously found the music that meant so much to Aziraphale distasteful (or at least boring) hurt somehow. Because it was not just a wonderful piece of music, it meant so much more: it was about Christmas, a day that had proved that God cared for the humans and wanted to live among them, and it was about what that holiday meant to the humans. 

“Not exactly up-to-date anymore,” Crowley scoffed.

Aziraphale bristled. Contrary to Heaven, Crowley had never mocked his interests. Or, well, he _had_ , but always in a teasing, never in a condescending way. “Right. I take it you’re still angry.” In the church, it had seemed like they were still friends and everything was fine again – just like that. But obviously that had just been in the heat of the moment.

Crowley took off his glasses and squinted at Aziraphale. “What? Want me to run into a church again to prove it?”

“No, I-I-I… I mean, why – where have you been? I haven’t heard from you in years…”

“Took a nap. Bit longer than expected. Woke up during the war. The last one, I mean.” Then Crowley frowned. “It’s not like _you_ contacted me in all those years.”

“I did,” Aziraphale said softly, desperately, “I tried.”

Crowley sighed and leant back on the couch to stare up at the low ceiling. “Listen, I _am_ angry – at those dumb Nazi spies and that fucking consecrated ground, and my feet hurt like, well, they hurt like shit and I don’t really feel like listening to German words right now” – he gestured at the gramophone – “but we’re good, yeah?”

“Oh, _oh_ , I’m sorry, my dear.” Aziraphale immediately made the record stop spinning. “That was really thoughtless of me. Goodness. Let me – let me have a look at your feet?”

“You know you can’t heal holy burns. You can’t heal a demon.”

“Well, we’ll see about that,” Aziraphale said darkly and rolled up his sleeves. Whoever had decided that angels couldn’t heal demons had not considered Aziraphale’s conviction.

“Please, no experiments,” Crowley groaned. “They’re bad enough as it is.”

“No, no, of course not,” Aziraphale shushed him. “I meant the human way. There’re ways to make the burns at least better.” Aziraphale filled a large bowl, that had conveniently turned up behind a stack of books, with cold water.

Crowley relented and carefully removed his shoes and socks, all the while visibly trying to suppress the hisses of pain. The record started erratically spinning again but instead of Bach’s cantatas, shrill, hectic and dissonant sounds came out of it.

“Huh,” said Aziraphale but refrained from admonishing Crowley because his feet really looked bad. They were burnt all over, blisters everywhere, even raw meat visible, and parts of the socks kept clinging to the skin. Aziraphale’s heart ached with pity and love for that stupid, brave, kind demon. He swallowed and knelt down to carefully help Crowley’s feet into the water.

Crowley hissed loudly when his feet touched the cold water but of course he played it off. “So, picking up things from the birthday boy again?”

Aziraphale humoured him. “What do you mean?”

“Jesus? Shouldn’t his birthday be around now?”

“Oh, yes, of course. But what…?”

“You know, washing the feet of sinners…”

“You are not – well. Strictly speaking you are a sinner. But…” But what? Aziraphale had been relieved when Heaven had changed their policy and granted human sinners the chance of forgiveness. One sin did not mean eternal damnation anymore. Sometimes he had wondered if that policy could be extended to demons, too. Aziraphale was not sure if Crowley deserved forgiveness and – whatever his personal feelings on the matter – it was not for him to decide. But he was certain that Crowley deserved gentleness. And at this moment, when he knelt at Crowley’s feet, Aziraphale felt like _he_ was the sinner who was asking for forgiveness. He did so with every careful touch and with the fluffiest towel, which he miracled downstairs to dry Crowley’s feet. Crowley did not say a word, just breathed slowly. The shrill, hectic music grew quieter and slower and finally faded out.

It was completely silent in the bunker. Aziraphale looked up to see Crowley’s face in the flickering candle light look more demonic than ever before. He did not mind.

He smiled and straightened up. “Whatever did you do to my record?”

“Not sure. Might have accidentally turned it into bebop.”

“Into what now?”

“New musical style that they invented in North America.”

Aziraphale was quite sure that Crowley had just invented that word but he did not call him out on it. “Anyway, I’m sure I will be able to restore the record with a little miracle. I believe bebop is not really my style.” He went to retrieve his first-aid kit from behind another stack of books.

Crowley shrugged. “So why are you keeping that -” he indicated the first-aid kit “- here? It’s not like you need supplies to heal someone.”

“I… I used it in the war. The first one. And now unfortunately it is needed again.” Aziraphale felt all the memories of the injured humans weighing down on him, all the ones he could not help – could not help enough or not at all. Could only try to comfort and promise that they were forgiven and that God loved them. “You can probably imagine how fast it happens that one overdraws their healing quota in a war.”

Crowley silently looked at him for quite some time and then, finally, he said, “You tend to do that, yeah.”

Aziraphale shrugged apologetically but he knew that Crowley was not judging, not reprimanding him for not fulfilling his angelic duties according to heavenly quotas. He rummaged in his first-aid kit for the burn ointment.

“So you tried healing in the human way to avoid getting into trouble with the idiotic archangels?”

Aziraphale ignored the rude language (and silently maybe even agreed with Crowley). It was so good to again have someone (the only one) who understood. It had been so lonely: the exhaustion from the many healing miracles, the helpless anger when Heaven did not allow him to do more, the grief for the humans who died so unnecessarily. He wanted to share it all with Crowley again. And forever. 

“I assisted a field medic and learned from her,” Aziraphale explained.

Crowley hummed. “You know, there was talk among the soldiers about a guardian angel on the battlefield. I was wondering if it was you or if they were just making up stories to give each other hope.”

Aziraphale smiled with trembling lips. “This – this ointment-” he cleared his throat. “-it helped against the burns caused by explosions. It should help with your feet, too.” He knelt down and tentatively reached out to touch Crowley’s foot. “Will you let me?”

“Of course,” Crowley said because he always allowed Aziraphale to do good.


	8. Choir & Chestnuts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m behind with filling the advent calendar prompts, so I cheated a little and combined day 8 and 9. Little warning for hints at an abusive relationship (not between Aziraphale and Crowley - although some slightly prejudiced but well-meaning people suspect it).

Debbie’s first impression upon meeting Mr. Fell was that he would fit nicely into their little church choir. He was middle-aged, the angel themed ring indicated his religious background and he was polite and kind, shook everyone’s hand and smiled warmly when he introduced himself. ****

Her second impression after the first choir practice was that he would not fit into their choir at all. He was ridiculously overqualified. He sang in a very soft voice but when she caught his voice between Richard’s booming wrong notes he had perfect pure intonation.

After practice she addressed him. “Let’s be honest here, Mr. Fell.” She sighed. “I’m sure this choir is not for you.”

“Oh. I just thought I could maybe try it.” He looked terribly crestfallen and was nervously wringing his hands. “So sorry to have wasted your time.”

“No, no, it’s alright, no worries. Please don’t get me wrong, I would love to have such talented singers as you but, well, we are not a professional choir, Mr. Fell. We sing just for the fun of it, most people have been in this choir for decades and their voices may be getting fragile with old age but I would never take this – this hobby, this community – from them.”

“That sounds absolutely wonderful, Mrs. Mason, and it is exactly what singing and religion and humanity should be like.” He said it without any trace of irony and smiled so warmly at her that she felt the exhaustion from a long day at work, a minor fight with her husband and a two hour choir practice leave her.

“Thank you,” she said for lack of a better reply. “I mean, you are of course very welcome to join our choir but I’m sure you would be bored very quickly. Maybe you could find a better choir in one of the bigger towns. I hear they have a new conductor in Brighton.”

“I think I would prefer to sing in your choir. And I’m quite sure it wouldn’t bore me. If it was alright with you, of course.” He seemed almost timid, his eyes darting nervously around the room. “Brighton is a bit far from here, isn’t it?”

“In that case, welcome to our choir,” she was quick to reassure him. You did not say no to such a talented singer, and she really needed a second (and preferably good) tenor.

His relieved smile was blinding.

***

It took no time at all for everybody to be completely charmed by Mr. Fell. He was the kindest person Debbie had ever met, always seemed so earnestly delighted to see any of them. He always had a nice word for everyone, complimented Rosie on her knitted scarf, told Jacob how wonderful it was of him to come to choir practice every Wednesday in spite of his bad leg, made Margot positively glow when he admitted that her little Soprano solo had moved him to tears. And true to his word, he did not get bored. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the music on an almost spiritual level. Sometimes he closed his eyes while singing or put his hand on his heart, once he even grabbed Richard’s arm in excitement when a passage finally sounded right because the alto _finally_ remembered their cue. (Richard seemed a little weirded out by this but, to his credit, did not say anything.) He also told Debbie that he admired her for leading the choir as a voluntary service and that it was certainly as challenging as conducting a professional choir. He even thanked her after every practice, which was a bit over the top, but the others picked up on it and often had a nice word to say to Debbie, complimented her song choices or her piano playing, and one normal Wednesday – neither her birthday nor Christmas – they just gave her a little bouquet of flowers and chocolates just like that, as a thank you for her efforts. It brightened an otherwise tedious day and she felt more motivated than ever to work with these lovely people.

Although Mr. Fell immersed himself in the village life – he asked Rosie to show him knitting patterns, crooned over the pictures of Richard’s grandchildren, swapped biscuit recipes with Charlotte, lent Amanda a book – he stayed a bit of an enigma. Even after several months he did not offer his first name (and somehow the time to ask had passed). Although he was always showing an interest in listening to the everyday stories of the others, they did not know much about his personal life. They only knew he had moved to a cottage a few miles outside the village at the beginning of the year, and that he used to live in London and had sung in a choir “a _very_ long time ago”. He did not offer more information, just stressed that he definitely preferred this choir to the other (which of course made everyone feel very validated). He was also extremely well educated. He knew almost every composer of the songs they were singing and could tell some odd anecdotes. And yet, despite his vast knowledge and his flawless singing he often seemed timid, apologising endlessly when he had once lost one of his sheet music, and nearly vibrating with nervous energy when he had brought home-baked biscuits one Wednesday. (Although the biscuits had been rather dry, everybody told him they were delicious, and it was worth it for his absolutely sunny smile.) It did not really make sense.

But then it did, although Debbie wished it didn’t. His behaviour reminded her too much of Laura in the months before she had finally gotten a divorce and moved to Cardiff. They had not been able to help her, had not seen the signs early enough. So they could not help but worry now.

They did not really know about his relationship status. The ring on his little finger was not a wedding ring. But they knew he lived in a cottage together with the same man who drove him to choir practice every Wednesday. Mr. Fell sometimes mentioned him and called him Crowley, although no one knew if it was his first or last name.

It was a small village. There were rumours.

Debbie was too polite to take part in those rumours. But that did not mean she did not wonder sometimes. Now, there had never been – how did you say correctly? – _homosexuals_ in the village before. (Although people had wondered about good old Lisa who had always lived alone.) Debbie was not to judge Mr. Fell’s hypothetical proclivities towards one gender or another. As far as she was concerned, he could live together with a nice fellow or a lovely woman – it did not change the fact that he was a polite and charming gentleman, who gave almost magical neck massages (seriously, just a touch of his hand and she felt all the day’s exhaustion fade away) and who was frightened of raising his beautiful singing voice. However, he deserved a _nice_ fellow. And all the singers of the choir agreed that that Crowley guy was _not_.

First of all, he always stopped in the no stopping zone when he dropped Mr. Fell at the church, and he would do so with screeching brakes and very loud and obnoxious music from his fancy vintage car. Also he had never introduced himself, never even spoken to any of the other singers. In fact, he had never left his car. And he always wore sunglasses, even at 10pm when he returned to pick Mr. Fell up. All of that, Debbie would have been able to excuse. Obnoxious, yes, but not malicious. But there were other things which made her feel uneasy about that Crowley fellow.

He had never been to any of their performances, which gave the impression that he was not really interested in his partner’s hobby even though he drove him there every week. And that was unusual, too. Why did Mr. Fell not drive himself? Did Crowley not allow him to use that fancy vintage car? Or did he not even have a driving licence? If so, why not? Was Crowley that kind of controlling persona who did not want their partner to be independent?

Most worrying was, however, Mr. Fell’s behaviour. Why would a lovely and talented man like him always act as if he was in fear of judgement or even punishment, always so worried of doing something wrong? His reaction when they had carefully asked him about Crowley had been telling. He had quickly looked around as if to check if someone was following him. “Oh, Crowley is my – my – my partner.” He had smiled nervously and then added quickly, “We’ve known each other for a long time and decided to try to live together.”

“And how’s that working out?” Jacob had asked, looking ready to beat Crowley up with his walking stick if he heard any confirmation that that bastard wasn’t treating Mr. Fell well.

“It’s… good. Very good, yes.”

“You know, if there is a problem, anything at all,” Charlotte had said, “we will be there for you. If you need help, just tell us.”

“Oh, that’s very nice of you. The same goes, of course, for you if you ever need help with anything.” Another smile. He was probably misunderstanding them on purpose.

Rosie was done with the subtleties. “Your partner, Crowley – is he treating you well?”

“Yes, yes, of course! He is the nicest de- _human being_ I’ve ever known.”

He would not say more on the matter, and they all kept wondering what he had been about to say instead of “human being” (which in itself was an odd enough choice of words).

They took it upon themselves to keep an eye on Mr. Fell. Rosie’s eldest daughter was friends with a police officer whom she told to inconspicuously check up on Crowley. The only thing that came out of that were several tickets for speeding and parking offences.

Charlotte, who lived closest to the cottage of Mr. Fell and Crowley, occasionally walked her old dog there. (The dog had made a miraculous recovery several weeks ago when she had thought he would have to be put to sleep.) She only reported that Crowley was often in the garden, where he always wore his sunglasses too, and was talking to himself or to the flowers or to an imaginary person.

Maybe they had been wrong? Had overreacted after the thing with Laura? Maybe Crowley was just visually impaired and/or mentally disabled? And Mr. Fell, bless his gentle soul, had taken it upon himself to care for him? But then, why did Crowley always drive the car? It still did not make sense.

For now, all they could do was keep an eye on Mr. Fell, be nice and supportive to him so he knew he could always trust them if he needed their help.

By Christmas and after several months of gentle coaxing Debbie had Mr. Fell finally at a tentative mezzoforte. He had brought them Christmas biscuits again (which were fortunately not as bad as the last ones). All in all, he seemed to be in a bright mood and things looked good but then he mentioned that he would not be able to make it to choir practice in all of January and February because presumably he and Crowley went on a vacation to Australia. It did not seem entirely believable coming from a guy who always wore the same old coat and vest.

The choir had their traditional performance on the little Christmas fair in the village centre, and Debbie was determined to have a word with Mr. Fell afterwards to find out what was going on. For now, Mr. Fell seemed to be perfectly fine. He even happily waved into the audience. Debbie turned around to look and, yes, there was Crowley lurking in a dark corner with his custom sunglasses (at a Christmas fair, ridiculous!). She frowned at him as if to say, _Well, did you finally make it then?_ but he did not notice her disapproving expression because he was fiddling with his stupid mobile (that had probably cost more than Debbie’s second-hand car). Anyway. Time to focus on her choir. She turned around, forced a smile and conducted the first piece.

It was a lovely performance. The long rehearsal from last week paid off. All the voices sounded brilliant during the “glorias” of “Angels we have heard on high”, even the tenor because Aziraphale’s voice could be heard a little and Richard _almost_ hit the right notes. God, she really loved her choir. Some of them smiled while singing, others looked deeply focussed on their sheet music and some even swayed a little with the music. It was easy to get infected with the festive atmosphere but she still felt a little stressed with the knowledge that Crowley was somewhere behind her. Something about that man just made her feel so uneasy.

When she turned to the audience to thank them for their polite applause, she realised that Crowley was filming the whole thing on his mobile.

 _Oh_.

She turned back again. Nothing suggested that Mr. Fell was perturbed by Crowley’s presence; on the contrary, he was practically glowing, just as happy as always when they were singing together.

Something inside Debbie eased up, something shifted. She remembered proudly filming their granddaughter’s first school performance last Friday. She herself had asked her husband to film the song “The first noel” today so she could study the recording later.

She relaxed further when, after the performance, she witnessed Mr. Fell approach Crowley, chattering enthusiastically about their little concert. Without even asking, he took a sip from Crowley’s mulled wine. They really seemed fine. Crowley might not be such a charming and polite man like Mr. Fell – he had a certain sullen air around him – but he nonetheless followed Mr. Fell around, stopping at every market stand, where Mr. Fell admired the handcraft. Occasionally Crowley would offer Mr. Fell the bag of roasted chestnuts, which he did not seem to eat himself but to just carry around for Mr. Fell, who lit up with a grateful smile _every single time_.

Something shifted again. Debbie remembered first dates at the fair, sharing drinks, having her date buy her sweets.

She decided to join them for a moment, to at least introduce herself to Crowley and wish them a merry Christmas. “Debbie Mason, pleasure to meet you.” She offered a hand that Crowley shook.

“Anthony J. Crowley. Good, er, concert. Very nice…singing.”

“Thank you very much,” said Debbie, privately thinking that these two really needed to get over their last-name-quirk. “So I hear you are planning a vacation?”

“Yeah, need to get away from this fucking coldness for a bit.”

Debbie frowned, not knowing how to react. On the one hand, she did not endorse such rude language, on the other, she did not want to jeopardise her newly found peace with Mr. Crowley.

Fortunately, Mr. Fell saved her from having to reply. “If you for once in your life put on a decent scarf you wouldn’t be so cold,” he admonished his partner.

Mr. Crowley (who in fact looked rather chilled through with his red nose and pale lips) pulled a face which suggested they had had this argument several times before.

Something shifted again. Debbie remembered her late parents bicker about the same things again and again.

She could not really make sense of the relationship between Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley, but Mr. Fell seemed to be unusually relaxed and content around Mr. Crowley and that in turn left Debbie relaxed, too.

***

The next year, Mr. Crowley still did not attend church service, still drove over the speed limit, still parked in the no stopping zone, still blared too loud music from his flash car and still wore his ridiculous sunglasses. Nevertheless, when Mr. Fell had proudly brought pears from their garden one Wednesday evening to choir practice and mentioned that Mr. Crowley liked gardening, Margot had brought Mr. Fell bulbs for black tulips, a colour that Mr. Crowley seemed to enjoy a lot. In winter, Rosie gave Mr. Fell a knitted scarf “for your dear husband”, to which Mr. Fell spluttered that they were not married yet. (The little word “yet” had everyone quite excited.) For their next performance at the annual Christmas fair, Debbie could finally coax Mr. Fell to sing a short solo part, which he naturally did beautifully. Mr. Crowley was lurking in the background again, filming the performance on his mobile, and later offering Mr. Fell mulled wine and roasted chestnuts. If some of the choir members rooted for there to be a wedding ring among the chestnuts – well. Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley still did not make sense at all but they were happy together and that was all that mattered as far as everyone was concerned.


	9. Gold & Silver

There was gold and silver on Crowley’s face because the Christmas baubles they had finally agreed on buying were full of glitter. They had spent hours decorating the huge tree, and afterwards Crowley had collapsed exhaustedly on the couch and fallen asleep, limbs sprawled in all directions, a smudge of silver glitter between his brows, a bit of gold on his nose and on his right cheek. It was an unusual look and Aziraphale wondered (not for the first time) what Crowley had been like as an angel. They had not met each other before the Garden Eden. Surely Crowley would have been a beautiful angel, with his long wavy hair, little gold ornaments on his face instead of the snake tattoo, wearing a white tunic for once… and his eyes. What would they have looked like? Imagining Crowley with blue or brown eyes somehow seemed wrong. All of these thoughts seemed wrong. And yet – Aziraphale could not help but wonder. Would they have gotten along if they had finally met in Heaven?

Crowley blinked open his eyes. His very demonic eyes. His lovely demonic eyes.

“What’re you ssstaring at? Got sssomething on my nossse?”

“I’m – I’m glad you fell,” Aziraphale blurted out the first thing on his mind.

“What the fuck?” All sleepiness had left Crowley’s voice when he jerked upright. “That’s bloody rude, angel.”

“Goodness, I’m sorry, that was not what I meant. I am of course sorry for what you had to go through but, I mean, I’m just glad we ended up together on Earth. It would not have worked out like this if you weren’t a demon. Right?”

“Hmm,” Crowley grumbled. “You got yourself out of that one, nice save. Still. Never wake me up like that ever again.” He slumped against the back of the couch. “Whatever brought this on? What happened while I was asleep? How _long_ was I asleep?” He thoroughly looked around but visibly relaxed when he realised that the Christmas tree was still there.

“Just about half an hour, I think. Again, I really am sorry, my dear.” Aziraphale sat down next to him and patted his hand. Crowley grumbled a bit more but turned his hand so Aziraphale could interlace their fingers. “Anyway, you actually have something on your nose,” Aziraphale said.

“What?”

Aziraphale smiled. “You are full of glitter.”

“Why didn’t you say something before? This is humiliating.” Crowley wiped his face but only managed to spread the glitter more.

“Well, you insisted on the black baubles.”

“I wanted the proper black ones. Not the – glittery stuff.”

“We discussed this and decided black with glitter was a good compromise.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know it would get in my face.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers to miracle the glitter away. “There, looking properly demonic again.”

“Good.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed softly because he wouldn’t want for Crowley to be any other way. He lifted one hand to caress Crowley’s snake tattoo with his thumb and felt the very human skin warm under his fingers.

“I could’ve done without the dive through burning sulfur,” Crowley mumbled. “But, nhm… I guess it was worth it in the end.”


	10. Pine

There was a pine tree in the middle of the market square. It did not make sense for it to be there. It most definitely did not make sense for it to have apples. Crowley knew a bit about apple trees and he had never seen one with needles.

“Oh dear.” Aziraphale, who stood next to him, was eyeing the pine nervously.

“Mm,” Crowley agreed although he did not really see Aziraphale’s problem. A pine tree with apples was odd but not exactly evil. Crowley, however, was in big trouble. He had been meant to thwart the invention of the so-called _Christmas tree_. Unfortunately, he had missed its erection and its decoration because at the time they had been quite busy testing another human invention called _eggnog_. “So, what’s got Heaven so upset? Looks very… _holy_ to me.”

“Well, the apples for a start.”

“Don’t tell me they’re still not over the apple business?”

“ _The apple business_? Crowley, that was not a minor detail, it was _the_ original sin. That’s not something you just get over after a few millennia.”

“I thought they’d revised that by sacrificing Jesus.”

“What can I say – the apples are obviously still here. And none of us did it.”

“Huh. Hell thought you were definitely taunting us with the apples. You know, as a symbol of how temptation didn’t work out in the end.”

“Well.” Aziraphale looked thoughtful. “It _did_ not work out, did it? Maybe I can report that Hell is not happy with the apples either. That should placate the archangels a bit.”

“We definitely had nothing to do with all of this. Or do you really think Hell would put an angel on top?”

“Gabriel doesn’t like how they depict him. He says it’s humiliating to be used as tree decoration. And on a tree with apples!”

This was getting more and more interesting. “You know, I might just tell Hell I put the angel there to piss off Gabriel. Oh, they’re going to like that!” _Crowley_ started to like it, and he started to wish it would have been really his idea to use improper figurines of Gabriel.

“It might work,” Aziraphale said in relief.

But they still needed to get rid of the Christmas tree. It was tedious work in the coldness and darkness. The tree was heavy and the needles pricked their skin. Their clothes and hands got torn by the branches and the decoration kept falling off. And that was just _one_ Christmas tree. There were already dozens in this town.

“This is hopeless,” Crowley decided after they had dragged the third tree out of town and into the woods nearby. A group of humans had chased them and they might have ended up in the local prison as thieves if Crowley hadn’t turned into a monster to scare them away. Needless to say, this night had taken a lot of energy from him. Not caring for his clothes anymore he collapsed onto the muddy ground between the three stolen trees. “You can’t stop humans if they really like something. And I think they really like Christmas trees.”

“I’m afraid you’re right.” Aziraphale looked just as exhausted as Crowley felt, with his usually pristine clothes all in disarray. (Crowley secretly always found him a bit endearing when he was a little dirty, that is, even more endearing than his usual endearing self.) Aziraphale examined the biggest Christmas tree and plucked an apple from its branches to have something to eat. “I could just work on spreading the idea that the apples are a symbol of God’s forgiveness of mankind. Maybe Heaven would like that.”

“And I could make sure Christmas trees are always decorated with angels. To humiliate them, of course.”

“If you must… But it does seem a reasonable solution to deal with this whole PR disaster.” Aziraphale plucked another apple from the tree and offered it to Crowley.

“Oh, are we re-enacting original sin now?”

Aziraphale blushed and pulled his hand back. “I would never do that!”

“Just joking. Come on, give me an apple, I’m hungry.”

Aziraphale huffed but relented. Crowley snapped his fingers to ignite a little fire to warm them. The trees with its colourful decorations looked not half bad in the firelight. Not a truly genius invention but a nice human idea to brighten the long winter nights.

“You know, I don’t really mind angel decorations,” Aziraphale said. “It’s rather flattering that the humans would want us to be on their Christmas trees. I think a bit of gold would look lovely on the angels, don’t you?”

“I’ll see what I can do about it,” Crowley promised. He would make sure the next angels on Christmas trees looked a bit less like Gabriel and more like…nicer angels.


	11. Carolling & Wrapping Paper

There were two rolls of wrapping papers in Brother Francis’s little garden hut: a silver one with little angels and a tartan one. 

The two harmless objects upset Crowley so much that she stormed out of the hut without getting the woollen coat as intended (who needed a coat anyway, it wasn’t that cold, coats were for wimps, not for demons!). She stormed through the garden, kicking a bush who had dared to grow out of line (who Aziraphale had let grow out of line). Out of spite, she set fire to the fairy lights, thus effectively shutting down the whole building’s electricity. There was confused shouting from the dark mansion but that was not her problem anymore, she had the weekend off.

Time to get drunk in a bar. You see, in 2000 years Crowley had never gotten a Christmas present from Aziraphale, even though she gave one to Aziraphale most years when they were in the same area. It was alright, she understood why Aziraphale did not give her anything. Because a present would be physical proof of not only a working but also a personal relationship. She knew that Aziraphale, if he were free from Heaven, would gladly give her presents. Aziraphale liked giving presents: giving the humans his flaming sword, bestowing blessings, putting food outside for a hedgehog, giving money to a beggar… But Heaven did not always allow him to give as much as he wanted. 

It used to be alright. And Crowley did get something in return: a grateful and happy smile and an invitation into the bookshop for a drink or two. It was enough, more than enough. Just – seeing the wrapping paper had thrown Crowley for a loop. Imagining Aziraphale thoughtfully selecting Christmas presents and wrapping them for some random people – for whom? Warlock, that was okay, Crowley herself had bought the little Antichrist a spooky musical box with a skeleton on top of it. But also for Mrs. Dowling and her idiot husband? Maybe for the cook and the cleaning staff, too? Humans Aziraphale had barely known for a few years? It felt stupid. _Crowley_ felt stupid. She didn’t even like Christmas. And anything Aziraphale would give her would probably only clutter up her flat and not go with her style at all. She didn’t need soppy Christmas presents, a glass of Whiskey would do just fine. But…imagining Aziraphale carefully wrapping something for her, putting a bow on top, adding a name tag…

Well, look who was soppy now.

Next Monday, she told Mrs. Dowling that she would be fine to stay for the holidays.

“Oh really?” She looked immensely relieved. Christmas usually put humans through a lot of stress (some of which Crowley was responsible for). “I thought you wanted to go home to celebrate Christmas with…um…?”

“I don’t have family. Or anyone else to celebrate Christmas with.”

Aziraphale chose that precise moment to come into the hall. Crowley quickly looked away.

“Then you are very welcome to stay with us, of course,” said Mrs. Dowling. She then went off to work.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I take it you’re not coming over to the bookshop then? On Christmas, that is?”

“No time,” Crowley said.

“Well. I’m sure Warlock will be delighted to have you here with him.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“I suppose there’s really no reason for the gardener to stay for Christmas, is there?”

Crowley averted her eyes because she hated to see Aziraphale looking so sad. She realised that Aziraphale did not have anyone to celebrate Christmas with either. “It’s not like we do anything special for Christmas when we meet. I mean, we eat, drink, talk – same things we always do, right?”

“Yes, of course. Anyway. I’ll get to work.”

Crowley snorted. “Sure.” As if Aziraphale ever did any work in the garden aside from feeding the birds and talking to slugs.

***

Christmas with the Dowlings wasn’t exactly a fun affair. On the 25th they were hosting a huge dinner party but as Mr. Dowling was on an important Christmas party every day and every night, all the preparations were left to Mrs. Dowling (and in turn to the overworked staff). Warlock was keyed up because he could not wait to finally get his presents. The atmosphere could not really be described as festive. Crowley tried to teach Warlock how a clock and a calendar worked and how to tell the time so he would stop pestering everyone by asking when it was finally time to unbox his presents.

Christmas morning was still tolerable. Warlock enjoyed most of his presents (even the boring storybook wrapped in tartan paper) and only threw a minor tantrum when he did not get the right Star Wars action figure. The Dowlings gave Crowley a completely useless gift voucher for a spa treatment. Warlock also had something for her, and it was wrapped in tartan paper, making Crowley’s hands shake a little when she unwrapped it. It was a hastily drawn picture that was labelled in a familiar handwriting: it said “Warlock” next to the biggest stick figure, “Nanny” next to a slightly smaller and black stick figure, “sun” next to a yellow oval and “birds” next to a blue…well, scribble.

“Ah, very minimalist, very abstract, I like it.” Crowley tousled Warlock’s hair and swallowed down the lump in her throat. Then she carefully rolled the paper up and safely put it away.

By midday, the Dowling’s were having an argument again and the cook was close to a mental breakdown (Crowley smuggled the gift voucher for the spa treatment into her bag). Warlock stayed with Crowley when his parents were shouting in the living room, and that meant Crowley could not even get drunk on the eggnog in peace. There was a loud bang from the front door, than the crunching of the gravel as a car sped away. Warlock was trying to behead his action figure. It was ridiculous, what was Crowley even doing here? The world was about to end in a few years and she moped and Aziraphale was lonely in his bookshop and the humans argued over wrong presents and dinner parties that they did not even enjoy, and the present for Aziraphale was in the Bentley’s glove compartment.

“How do you feel about going outside?” Crowley suggested.

Warlock nodded in relief.

When they ran across Mrs. Dowling in the hall, she quickly wiped her tears away and put on a brave smile.

“Do you mind if Warlock and I head out for a bit?” Crowley asked.

“That’s a good idea, thank you, Miss Ashtoreth. What are you going to do?”

“Er, sleighing,” Crowley said the first thing that came to her mind but of course there was no snow in London, “I mean, carolling.” Or whatever it was humans usually did on Christmas.

“Oh, that sounds lovely.” Then she lowered her voice so only Crowley could hear her. “It’d probably be better if you stayed away for a bit longer until, you know, things are back under control here.”

“No problem.”

Mrs. Dowling exhaled in relief. “You really are a godsend, Miss Ashtoreth.”

Crowley winced but managed to control herself.

“What’s carolling?” Warlock asked later from the backseat of the Bentley.

“Eh, we go to some houses and sing Christmas songs very badly and only stop if they give us money or sweets.”

Warlock was all for it and they spent the drive changing the lyrics of several Christmas songs to make them more interesting.

It was fun, standing primly and serenely next to Warlock while he sang the most outrageous lyrics with his cute face. Most people were so out of their depth that they just didn’t say anything but simply gave him sweets and threw Crowley somewhat nervous looks.

When Warlock grew bored and cold, Crowley suggested they go and see Brother Francis. Aziraphale was thoroughly taken aback when they knocked on his door and Warlock was pretty confused, too.

“What happened to your eyebrows, Brother Francis?”

“Oh, I – I trimmed them. For the holiday.”

“And your teeth?”

“Hm?” Aziraphale quickly turned aside and then turned back with his large front teeth miracled back on. “Whatever do you mean, Master Warlock?”

“You look different!”

“Why don’t you come inside?”

“We must carolling first!”

“Carolling, how lovely! What are you going to sing, young Warlock?”

“Jingle hell.”

“Oh dear.”

Nevertheless, Aziraphale listened through the whole song (but sometimes winced slightly). “I believe we have to practise the lyrics a bit”, he said afterwards. “It seems like Nanny mixed up a few things.”

Warlock giggled. “I’m not stupid, Brother Francis. I know that’s not the _real_ song. We changed it.”

“Well. Ahem. What would you say to some hot cocoa?”

Warlock was all for it, and Crowley could not believe she was spending Christmas with her hereditary enemy and the Antichrist drinking hot cocoa that did not even have alcohol in it. It was ridiculous but not nearly as ridiculous as the morning at the Dowlings’.

Aziraphale asked Warlock about his presents and the boy went on another rant about the wrong action figure he had gotten. A few minutes and a gentle lecture from Aziraphale later, Warlock gladly handed Aziraphale the action figure, who planned to give it to some poor kid who had not gotten anything for Christmas. Crowley supposed it was only fair if Aziraphale was allowed to do some influencing towards the good after she had taught Warlock rude carols, so she let Aziraphale do his angelic job now.

Then Warlock went to explore the bookshop, which had Aziraphale on edge. He hovered behind Warlock and shooed him away whenever he got too close to any of his books. “Ah, Master Warlock, these books are really not for young children. They are very old, very boring, you wouldn’t like them. I could –” he frantically looked around until he found what he was looking for “– I could read this to you.” He brandished a first edition of _Winnie-the-Pooh_.

It was ridiculous enough that there was no alcohol in her hot cocoa but now Crowley was even listening to Aziraphale reading _Winnie-the-Pooh_ , enthusiastically doing all the voices.

“This is boring,” she hissed, “there isn’t even anyone dying.”

“It’s not boring,” Warlock protested. “Come on, Brother Francis, read!”

Aziraphale gave Crowley a smug smile. Crowley didn’t really mind. She just had to, you know, protest for the sake of it – like Aziraphale had to protest against rude carols.

It did not take long for Warlock to fall asleep on the couch. Crowley would have liked to stay but it was already getting late.

“Suppose we should head back,” she said softly.

“Ah, yes. His parents might worry.” Aziraphale wrapped Warlock up in a tartan blanket and Crowley picked him up. “Thank you for coming over,” Aziraphale whispered. “It was nice having you here.”

Crowley did not really know what to say to that, so she just sneered in return and hoped it did not look too _nice_. She had unobtrusively left the present for Aziraphale in the kitchen when she had gotten them more hot cocoa while Aziraphale had been reading to Warlock. She really wanted to stay.

“So what are you up to now?” Aziraphale asked.

“Get the little hellspawn into bed, see if there’s any decent food from the party left, tempt a few of the politicians there – the usual stuff. You?”

“I’m going to bring a few presents to the children in the neighbourhood who didn’t get anything.” Aziraphale nodded towards the huge bag with presents, to which he had added Warlock’s action figure.

“Ah. _Good deeds_.” Crowley tried to sneer again. She was not sure if she succeeded. She never wanted it all to end, not even Christmas, hot cocoa, _Winnie-the-Pooh_ and Aziraphale’s good deeds. She also didn’t mind chaotic Christmas parties and rude carols but she really liked _all of this_ , this crazy, exciting little planet and all the humans and the angel on it. “So, er, merry Christmas or whatever.”

“And happy holidays to you, too. Oh, and thank you for the present.”

So he had already noticed. Crowley could feel herself blushing. “Shut up.”


	12. Eggnog

On Christmas Aziraphale puts on a Santa costume. He loves to go and see the kids in the neighbourhood, especially those who don’t get much for Christmas, to give them presents, spread joy and blessings all around. Crowley always grumbles how ridiculous he looks but secretly feels incredibly fond when he sees Aziraphale practically glowing with happiness. It’s his thing, his idea of what angelic love means (and the reason why, to Gabriel’s utter perplexity, angels are not depicted as warriors anymore but as gentle, caring beings).

When he returns late in the night (he always takes longer than originally planned), he is full of festive energy, his cheeks flushed from the cold and the excitement, and asks Crowley with an exaggerated waggle of his ridiculous eyebrows (he reuses the one from his Brother Francis costume) if he has been nice this years. Crowley, over the years, has calmed down and does not immediately slam Aziraphale against the wall. He makes a point of rolling his eyes, though, because he’s still a demon and has _some_ demonic pride left.

Aziraphale recalls some anecdote from last year to prove Crowley’s niceness and smugly pulls a present from the almost empty bag. Crowley clutches the present tightly because it still leaves him amazed that Aziraphale will gift him something – just like that, without fear, without making excuses about thwarting wiles. Although it might actually work to stifle Crowley’s demonic nature. With gentle fingers he helps Aziraphale out of his costume, puts on a fire in the fireplace and brings him eggnog to warm him up.

Aziraphale smiles at him and softly touches his hand in gratitude. Crowley makes a bauble on their little Christmas tree explode just to, you know, prove that he has not _completely_ gone soft and still has a little bit of naughtiness left inside him.

“Yes, very demonic, my dear,” Aziraphale agrees and presses a light kiss to his cheek and several more baubles burst demonically, just to prove a point of course.


	13. Laughter

They laughed. It was neither laughter of joy nor laughter of companionship. They laughed _at_ him.

Aziraphale laughed, too. Not because their laughter was infectious or because he wanted to. He laughed dutifully although he did not understand why they thought him so ridiculous. What was so laughable about his idea? He did not know how to phrase the question because he did not want to give them even more reason to laugh at him.

Gabriel was quick to lecture him anyway. “Aziraphale, I’m sure this idea comes from a pure heart but, forgive me for saying so, it really proves a stupefying lack of insight into the greater good.”

“These things are bound to happen when you are out of touch with everyday divinity,” Michael said with a pitying look. “With only humans as company for centuries, it’s no wonder your perspective is a little skewed.”

“I suppose it is.” Aziraphale tried to chuckle to show that he was in on the joke. “So I take it you won’t consider my suggestion?”

Gabriel snorted and shook his head in amusement. “You certainly haven’t forgotten that Heaven does not attach value to material objects?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed in relief. Just a misunderstanding then? “It wouldn’t necessarily have to be material objects for everyone. I thought about blessings, about healings for the sick and hurting, giving the hungry something to eat… Or just little miracles like snow on Christmas. A white Christmas really makes humans so happy.”

“Good Lord,” said Michael, “you are slobbering over this.”

Aziraphale flinched. He threw Gabriel a nervous look, hoping for validation from him.

“Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale. Haven’t 6000 years on Earth taught you anything? Happy humans are not necessarily devotional humans.”

“As we have highlighted in our final reports _every century_ ,” Michael added. “Statistics show that miserable humans in hopeless situations are more likely to turn to Heaven. How is that news to you?”

“I-I-I know that, of course. I-I just thought it would be nice to give them at least one good day a year. So they could be happy on Christmas even if their lives are otherwise miserable. They would be so thankful, I’m sure. Wouldn’t that secure souls for us, too?”

Gabriel sighed in exaggeration. “Enough of that. You should pay more attention to your routine business instead of this wool-gathering. I hear the demon Crowley has trapped you in London in an infernal ring of fire.”

That was wild. “Er…” Aziraphale did not know how to react to that because he did not want to get Crowley into trouble. That idea must have come from one of Crowley’s embellished reports to Hell (because Aziraphale was fairly certain that he was _not_ trapped in an infernal ring of fire…although he had not left London for quite some time). _He should have warned me about that_ , Aziraphale thought, mildly put off because it presented him as an incompetent angel once more.

“Do you need assistance?” Gabriel asked. He sounded almost worried.

Well, better make the best of it. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. I have already breached the ring of hellfire. You see, over the millennia I have become quite experienced in thwarting the demon’s wiles.” See? He was not completely useless.

“That’s good to hear.”

Then Aziraphale had a sudden flash of insight: It would not be so horrible if Crowley had really trapped him in a ring of hellfire in London. In fact, it would be very convenient this weekend because Heaven had ordered him to go to _Manchester_ of all places to bless the launch ceremony of a little church, and the weather forecast looked grim and he _really_ would have preferred to go to the Royal Opera House to see _Hansel and Gretel_. It was one of his favourite operas and the new production had gotten favourable reviews. He cleared his throat. “However, I’m still busy with extinguishing fires around London. So… I might not be able to make it to Manchester this weekend.”

“Oh, no worries there. I myself will deal with the Manchester business,” Gabriel promised. “You stay in London and focus on that hellfire.”

“Oh, thank you. That’s very gracious of you.”

“Well, it’s what we do, isn’t it?”

***

Now Aziraphale had the weekend off but he was still not over the archangels’ patronising behaviour.

“And then I suggested we – that is, all the angels – could make a collective miracle on Christmas,” he told Crowley when they had lunch in a new Korean restaurant. He needed to get a few things off his chest before he could fully enjoy his delicious starter. “How does the saying go? Peace on earth for everyone et cetera. You know how the humans have invented so many lovely Christmas traditions to spread joy but there are still so many people who are ill or hungry or poor or homeless or just don’t get any presents and feel lonely. So I thought if all the angels put in an effort we could make Christmas a happy event for everyone. A bit like those human fund-raising galas.”

Crowley gaped at him. “You – you suggested that to the archangels?”

“Yes, and can you imagine how they reacted?”

Crowley snorted. “So you – you practically proposed they should dress up as Santa and come to earth to, ha, spread festive joy?” He snorted again and then – he laughed. “Ooooh, I wish I could’ve seen their faces! Bet they loved it!”

Aziraphale huffed and put down his napkin, trying very hard not to let it show how Crowley’s reaction hurt him. “Excuse me,” he said primly, “I need to go to the restrooms.”

Crowley raised his brows because there really was no reason for a supernatural being to go to the toilet. And Aziraphale did not know what to do once he was there. He adjusted his bowtie, washed his hands and miracled away a rude doodle from a tile. He felt stupid and a little betrayed because he had thought Crowley was the only supernatural being to _understand_. But he had laughed at him, too. Why was it so ridiculous to want to give a bit of kindness once a year? It made Aziraphale angry and so he reached a vicious decision: _He_ would spread joy on Christmas, no matter what the archangels or Crowley thought. Let them laugh!

When he returned to their table, their main dishes had been served but he was not hungry anymore.

“You alright?” Crowley asked without looking at him.

“I’m perfect, thank you,” Aziraphale said icily.

“Is your food not good? You can have mine, I’m not really hungry anyway.” Crowley pushed his dish towards Aziraphale.

“I’m not hungry either.” Aziraphale pushed the dish back.

“Right. How about a digestif?”

“No, thank you. I have work to do, seeing as I will have to do the seasonal blessings all on my own and with the job in Manchester… oh, and _apparently_ I’m trapped in an infernal ring of fire, so I’ll have to sort that out, too.”

Crowley stared at him. “ _What_? How – _who_?”

“Oh? Isn’t that what you told Hell you’d achieved?”

“Of course it wasn’t me, what do you take me for?”

“But you told them.”

“ _No!_ Aziraphale, whoever did this – I had no idea. This is – _shit_. They must’ve… _fuck_.” Crowley put a black credit card on the table and stood up abruptly. “I’ll deal with this. You stay away. Okay? You just go back to the – no, you better stay here or…” He frantically looked around, visibly shaken.

“Crowley, stop.” Aziraphale put a hand on Crowley’s arm to make him calm down. All his anger had evaporated. “There is no ring of hellfire. Well, at least I’m fairly certain there isn’t.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I mean, I can’t be entirely sure but to me it just sounded like the archangels had, as usually, no idea what was going on.”

Crowley took a calming breath. “I hope you’re right. But I’m going to check anyway.”

“Be careful, please.”

“You know me, angel, I’m always careful,” said the demon who had once walked into a church and directed bombs onto it.

***

There was no ring of hellfire. A misunderstanding, as Crowley found out once he contacted Hell to make an enquiry. Apparently, the demons had not fully grasped yet how the M25 worked.

“I have no idea how that bit of information got to Heaven,” Crowley said, “but luckily you can rely on angels being daft idiots.”

Ah, yes. There it was again. Crowley had always made it clear that he thought angels spineless, empty-headed creatures. And he had laughed at Aziraphale’s plan like the archangels had done, too. A plan even too stupid for the _daft idiot_ archangels.

“Don’t look like that,” Crowley said. “I obviously didn’t mean you.”

Aziraphale sniffed. “Well. You obviously thought my… Christmas plan was stupid.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. You _laughed_.”

“Oh, come on. I wasn’t laughing at you. It was just that it was so funny to imagine the reaction of the other angels.”

“They thought it funny, too.”

“You can’t have seriously thought they would ever…” Crowley grimaced. “You did.”

“Why is it so ridiculous to expect angels to do good?” Aziraphale said in a huff.

“Because they aren’t…they aren’t _good_ , not like you. Come on, Aziraphale, you said it yourself: They have no idea what’s going on on Earth. Why do you listen to them?”

“Just so you know, I will spread as much joy on Christmas as is in my power. And don’t even try to thwart me.”

Crowley grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it. You defying the archangels – that’s pretty badass.”

“They didn’t exactly forbid it.” Aziraphale considered. He was not stupid. He knew Crowley was making fun of him – not in a condescending way now, more in their usual needling each other. He also knew that Crowley still felt at least slightly remorseful. If he played his cards right… “Anyway, you could help me. Seeing as it’s something the archangels don’t exactly approve, it’s only proper for a demon to participate. Who knows, it could get you another commendation from Hell. Maybe this time even for something you actually did do.”

Crowley muttered something to himself and rolled his eyes and grimaced and then said: “Just for the record, I know what you’re trying to do here, angel – tempting me to do _good deeds_.”

Aziraphale tried to suppress his grin. He almost had him. It always thrilled him to tempt Crowley to be nice. “I’m sure we could work some more demonic elements in. Let’s say, I take care of getting some presents for humans who can’t afford it, and then you can wrap the presents with tons of sticky tape and tie the bows very firmly and with several knots so they will be _so annoyed_ when they try to unwrap the presents.”

Crowley grinned toothily back. “Let’s make a deal. We do your evil Christmas plan on Friday and on Saturday we go to the cinema to watch the new James Bond film.”

“Hm.” Aziraphale could not really see what Crowley liked so much about that James Bond fellow but he would endure it for the sake of, well – the greater good or evil or whatever. For a happy human Christmas. “We can go to the cinema on Sunday. I wanted to see _Hansel and Gretel_ at the Royal Opera House on Saturday.”

Crowley shrugged. “Fine with me. But weren’t you meant to be in Manchester on Sunday?”

“Gabriel will do that one.”

“Really? Gabriel wants to go to Manchester?”

“He, er, might be under the impression that I am busy extinguishing infernal fires in London.”

“You – what! You didn’t – you can’t – _holy shit_. You just sent Gabriel to do your tedious work so you could, what, enjoy a weekend off in London?”

“He offered. And I really wanted to see the premiere.”

“You are such a bastard,” Crowley said in delight.

Aziraphale knew he meant it as a compliment, but still, an angel should not strive to be called a bastard. “There’s really no need to insult me.”

Crowley snickered. “I can’t believe you did that! Ha, can you imagine Gabriel doing the shitty work in Manchester while…”

Just for the record, Aziraphale really tried to suppress his giggles but Crowley’s laughter was just too infectious.


	14. Ornament & Cookies

The note arrived at the most inopportune moment and ended up full of flour, which dulled the sparkling supernatural white of the envelope a bit.

It had to wait until Aziraphale put the biscuits in the oven.

He got a bit worried when he read that it was a case of emergency and his presence in Heaven was required ASAP.

He hastily made it to the main entrance.

Gabriel was already expecting him. “Finally! What took you so long?”

“Oh, I was busy.” Aziraphale tried to put on an innocent smile. “You know how it is before Christmas. Lots of tempting everywhere.” The truth was that his job was never more relaxed than around Christmas when love, happiness, forgiveness and generosity were in the air everywhere. But as Crowley had told Hell that he was responsible for Christmas gifts (to distract from the religious spirit and make it a capitalist holiday) and all the food and sweets (gluttony!), Heaven thought in return that Aziraphale was very busy with protecting humans from demonic temptation, usually with great success as Christmas was normally the time of year when most prayers were recorded in Head Office.

“Care to explain this?” Gabriel put a children’s storybook under Aziraphale’s nose.

“Ah.” With a quick miracle, Aziraphale subtly removed traces of biscuit dough from his fingers that he had clasped behind his back. The picture depicted three chubby little angels with red flushed cheeks and happy smiles on their faces. One of them was kneading biscuit dough. The next one was cutting out biscuits. The third one was holding a tray with the biscuits, ready to put it into the oven. The biscuits were angel shaped. “Er.” (Aziraphale momentarily wondered how long you were meant to leave the biscuits in the oven.)

“We have endured angels on Christmas trees. We’ve lived through the embarrassment of frivolous songs about angels. But _this_ is too much. We are soldiers and messengers, not bakers. Not _cookies_.”

“Ah, yes. This looks bad.”

“How do the humans even get such absurd ideas?”

“Probably demonic suggestions.”

Gabriel nodded emphatically. “Right? I feel like someone is trying to undermine our authority. Sandalphon suggested a demonstration of angelic power on earth, preferably on Christmas Eve.”

“Oh, there’s really no need for that.” Aziraphale really hoped Gabriel would let him get back to his biscuits. Overbaked biscuits tended to get too hard! “I-I will smite that author. And any demon involved. Yes. Right now, if it is alright with you.”

“Fine, go on. But pay more attention in the future. I can’t believe you overlooked such an atrocity.”

Aziraphale was too late. The whole bookshop smelt of burnt biscuits. He didn’t get rid of the smell for _days_. Crowley liked it, though.

“Smells very demonic,” he said with a very satisfied demonic smirk.

“Oh, stop it. I was just making biscuits,” Aziraphale defended himself. Unfortunately, the biscuits had been burnt black and hard as stone – unsavable, even with a miracle, and completely inedible. Still, Aziraphale had kept them. He had thought about decorating them with sugar icing and then putting them up on the Christmas tree (after all, Gabriel _had_ said they endured angels on Christmas tree).

But Crowley discovered them before Aziraphale could do it. He was staring at the burnt biscuits, his demonic smirk vanished completely. “You – you made demon biscuits?” he asked softly.

“Oh. Erm, would you like one?”

Crowley ate it with determination, although it made quite alarming cracking noises when he bit into it and Aziraphale was a bit worried for his teeth.

He decided not to put icing on the biscuits after all but to put them up on the Christmas tree just as they were. The customers threw the oddly decorated tree curious glances but it was all for the better. And Crowley always hid a tentative smile whenever he saw the Christmas tree with the demon biscuits.

Heaven congratulated Aziraphale on his creativity when he reported that he had taken revenge by embarrassing the demons and paying back the deprecating experience to serve as Christmas tree decoration.


	15. Wish

“Do you have a wish for Christmas?” Aziraphale asks out of the blue.

“What, like world peace?” Crowley snorts.

“I meant something from me.”

“Oh.”

“I thought we could give each other presents this year.” Aziraphale glances nervously around but there is no one watching them. They are on their own side and they are free to give each other Christmas presents now.

Aziraphale directs his nervous glance at Crowley. “So, if there is something you wanted from me…”

What do you say to such a proposition? There is nothing he wants from Aziraphale – because as far as he is concerned everything is already perfect as it is. Just yesterday at the Christmas market the vendor at the sweets stall had asked Aziraphale if he meant to share the roasted almonds “with your friend”. And Aziraphale had not denied anything, had simply accepted the term like the most normal thing in the world. It had made Crowley so giddy that he had been unable to eat any of the roasted almonds.

“But if gift-giving is not something you’d want to do, we don’t have to do that,” Aziraphale babbles, “I just thought it would be nice to try out some human Christmas traditions-”

“No, no, it’s fine. Just – I don’t have a wish.” It’s not exactly true. Crowley does have a wish. But it’s not something you can put on a wish list for Christmas.

“Well, then I’ll just have to surprise you.” Aziraphale gives him a huge grin.

They haven’t held hands again since that weird bus ride. Looking back, it seems so unreal now that Crowley considers that maybe it had just been his overstressed imagination to feel the angelic touch on his shaking hand.

Yes, that’s his greatest wish. Holding Aziraphale’s hand. Or Aziraphale holding his hand. Just – holding hands. But how do you say that? _I want you to hold my hand?_ Never. Because he doesn’t want Aziraphale to do it just as an obligation. The angel would do it if Crowley told him it was his greatest wish – and that’s not what he wants. Not like that.

So he needs a plan.

With all his millennia of experience he comes up with ice skating. It’s the logical conclusion. Crowley had been responsible for convincing the humans to go onto the ice on slithery, uncomfortable shoes. He had expected chaos, lots of embarrassing tumbles and aggravating injuries. Aziraphale had suggested the humans help each other, and thus it had ended with lovesick couples holding hands on the ice in front of huge Christmas trees. Crowley had tried to destroy the mood with the worst music he could think of but it had been a lost cause. So it only serves Aziraphale right that Crowley turns that against him now. He will just pretend to be a bit clumsy, maybe cautiously crash into Aziraphale to make the angel hold him. He might even convince the stereo to play “Kissing by the mistletoe”. Or is that too much? Too fast? Better not. He knows Aziraphale adores “O holy night”. The sweetness of that song makes Crowley want to gag but he is pretty sure he will be able to ignore it as long as Aziraphale holds his hand.

Tempting Aziraphale to try ice skating is fantastically simple. He just says something about trying out some human Christmas traditions and mentions hot and sweet alcoholic beverages afterwards and Aziraphale is game.

They do end up holding hands – later in the emergency room when Crowley is scared shitless because a hospital-human is prodding his maybe broken arm. Of course Aziraphale can heal broken bones in a heartbeat but angelic healing powers don’t work on a demon (they know from one disastrous attempt in the seventh century that almost got Crowley discorporated). God or nature or whatever had decided it wasn’t meant to be. And most demons aren’t good with miraculous healings although Crowley had picked up a thing or two when he had covered for Aziraphale on occasions. But trying to heal yourself when you have a concussion is also a very bad idea (yes, he had tried that one, too, and ended up discovering how the very human experience of vomiting felt).

So it is a human hospital now, and Aziraphale’s thumb is softly caressing the back of his hand while Crowley tries not to hiss too much when the human talks about surgery. It’s the most romantic thing ever and Crowley congratulates himself on such craftsmanship.


	16. Gift

Giving Aziraphale Christmas presents is both the easiest and the hardest thing in the world. It’s not hard for the reason you would expect: What to give a supernatural entity after centuries and centuries of Christmas presents? Certainly you would run out of ideas at some point, right? But the act of choosing a gift has only been hard for the first few times when Crowley had overthought everything (after he had found the courage to even give the angel something in the first place) and had worried for weeks before the holiday. But Aziraphale’s reactions made it so easy. He was happy and grateful for anything. The obvious choice: books, never gets old. Then of course sweets, always an easy choice, always puts a smile on his face. A good bottle of wine. Just a handwritten card with seasonal greetings is fine, too. A famous writer’s autograph stolen from a museum, if Crowley feels particularly daring (or still has to fulfil his quota of evil deeds for the year). Some knickknack to clutter up the crammed shop even more. Really, whatever it is, Aziraphale will call everything “oh, lovely!” and “how wonderful!” And he will smile warmly and his eyes will twinkle so, so gratefully and he will usher Crowley insistently inside the bookshop for eggnog or mulled wine (or both). It’s so easy to be _kind_ and _nice_ to Aziraphale, something a demon should not ever be, in fact something he is not _allowed_ to be, but once in a while he _wants_ to be and Aziraphale always makes it so easy.

And that’s really the hard part at the same time because sometimes it’s too much. Sometimes he just shoves a parcel into Aziraphale’s hands, “Here, Christmas present, see you around”; sometimes he even just puts it in front of the bookshop’s door when he knows the angel is at Midnight Mass, and disappears quickly back into the night; sometimes the words “how nice” and “that’s very kind of you” feel suffocating because they are not for him, because he can’t ever be that, not truly, he’s unforgivable and the words are like a cruel mockery of that. He always tries very hard not to lose it in these situations because Aziraphale loves Christmas so much and would be inconsolable if Crowley threw a tantrum or even got violent or wreaked havoc on the bookshop on Christmas. So he makes up the worst deed he can imagine that he now allegedly has to attend to, demonic business etc. – to make it very clear that he is not _kind_ or _nice_ or _good_ – and quickly leaves, shakes off that stupid and hopeless yearning (to be good, to be forgiven, to be loved), goes back into his cold and empty flat and shouts at his plants.


	17. Warmth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a continuation of the last chapter "Gift".

One year, Aziraphale doesn’t simply let him go to do his alleged evil deeds.

“I’m coming with you,” he declares.

“What? Why?” Crowley wants – no, he doesn’t _want_ , he _needs_ to get away from Aziraphale’s kindness and the warmth of the bookshop. Right now.

“No one should be alone on Christmas.”

And that’s once again the sort of thing that Crowley can’t bear to hear. The words are a delusion. They can’t apply to him. “Cut the bullshit,” he snarls, shoves Aziraphale out of his way and heads for the door. “I’m a demon, I don’t care about Christmas and God’s love for all creatures, so that he sent his only son to be nailed to a cross and, whoop, all the sins are forgiven, what a huge amount of craptastic bullshit, I don’t need that -” He has already said too much and before he says even more, he kicks open the door – or tries to, anyway, because it opens in the other direction but he can’t be bothered now – he kicks again in frustration and then flings the doors open with an uncontrolled demonic miracle. The rational part of his brain registers that the old wooden doors creak dangerously and that makes him stop in his tracks. He is pretty sure that the one thing Aziraphale will not forgive is demolishing his bookshop. (And there’s that word again.) He takes an unnecessary breath to calm down, the harsh wind that blows into his face helps considerably, and turns around.

Aziraphale is standing in the open doors (which are quite unhinged), a frown on his face and the box with the chocolate truffles and the angel shaped candles which Crowley has given him as a Christmas present still in his hands. Crowley really has fucked up.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, “I’ll just…” He snaps and grimaces at the doors to right themselves. “Hope I didn’t destroy any holy wards.”

“As you well know, they cannot be destroyed by physical violence. Now, about that assignment of yours.”

“What about it?” Crowley has already forgotten the details of what horrible deed he had made up.

“I could help you.”

That’s not going to make things easier. Involving Aziraphale in a made up and completely unnecessary evil deed was not his plan and is, shockingly enough, nothing he really wants. “It’s nasty business. Wouldn’t want to tempt you to do evil on Christmas of all days.”

“Oh, come on, I’ve covered for you before. And we’ve found ways to work around the really nasty things several times. ”

Crowley shrugs and tries to come up with another argument to stop Aziraphale.

“You weren’t planning on _really_ causing such a horrible car accident, were you?” Aziraphale asks slightly worried.

Ah, yes, car accident, that was his fake plan. One kid dead, the other permanently crippled, parents without a suitable insurance to pay for all the costs for the injured kid, embittered and in debt – by the way, the father had been the manager of a company, he now sacks all his employees, who in turn take it out on their families … Yes, very evil plan indeed to spread evil. And which now has Aziraphale worried. Great.

“Yeah, yeah, sure, I’ll find a way around the killing the kid part. So, no worries, you can stay inside, drink your mulled wine, stay warm, read a book, whatever.”

“But drinking mulled wine alone is awfully boring.”

 _Oh_.

 _No one should be alone on Christmas_ , is what Aziraphale said earlier. Maybe he wasn’t just talking about Crowley.

Crowley heaves a deep, theatrical sigh. “Alright, alright. If you insist to do evil tonight – be my guest.”

“Wonderful.” Aziraphale actually claps his hands in satisfaction. “Let me just get a scarf and a hat and then I’m ready to go.”

He takes a bit longer and finally emerges covered in warm clothes and with a blessed picnic basket.

“What’s _that_? We’re going to do crimes, not a picnic.”

“I brought us a nice thermos of mulled wine. I mean, I could hardly let it go to waste, could I? And then I thought why not bring the mince pies, too? I bought them yesterday at…”

Crowley puts his hands in his pockets, leads the way and only half listens to the angel chatter happily about mince pies and his Christmas shopping.

Crowley needs to improvise now. And he preferably needs a rich family with two kids in a car. Where are people today? At home or… at church. Well, shit. Crowley leads them to St. Paul’s Cathedral. They sit down on a bench, Aziraphale opens the basket, retrieves a goddamn tartan thermos, and carefully pours mulled wine into the cap.

“Hell doesn’t usually send such specific instructions,” he says when he hands Crowley the cap. “So what is the goal of that assignment? What do they want to see achieved?”

“That manager firing all his employees.”

“Good. Then there really is no need for the car crash, wouldn’t you say? We just need to find another way for him to fire his employees.”

“Mhm. How about a kidnapping and blackmail?”

“Do we really have to involve the kids in this?”

“A robbery then.”

“In front of all these people who will leave the church together? I don’t think so.”

“We steal one of the cars here, chase him through London and _then_ rob him.” _That_ sounds exciting and something Crowley can see himself doing.

“Sorry, dear, I do not intend to discorporate today. Also, think of the poor family who has their car stolen on Christmas. Oh, they will be so devastated.”

Crowley snorts. “Aziraphale, you can’t do evil without inconveniencing _anyone_. That’s just part of the deal.”

“We’ll see about that. Now, leave some of that mulled wine to me, will you?”

Crowley rolls his eyes but hands Aziraphale the thermos cap.

Aziraphale sips it and hums thoughtfully once in a while. “What if we simply leave that poor man in peace and do the dismissals ourselves?”

Crowley considers this for a while. Forged notices, a fake TV statement, a few messages on twitter… “Oh, that’s clever.”

Aziraphale huffs. “You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

“It’s brilliant, actually. Think of all the chaos when the manager finds out about that! He hasn’t fired anyone personally but suddenly reads about it in the newspapers!” Crowley cackles gleefully. At that moment the church bells start ringing. He covers his ears because he _really_ hates that noise. People pour out of the church, most of them unusually friendly. Aziraphale of course can’t help himself and throws blessings all around, smiles at people and wishes them a merry Christmas.

Crowley uses the time to drink another cap of mulled wine. When the commotion is over, they get to work. They start it off by sending the BBC an anonymous message which states that there is a rumour that a huge London company is supposedly bankrupt. Then they record a fake telephone call, which is meant to back up the supposed rumour. It takes them almost two hours because Aziraphale is complete rubbish at it. He cracks up every time Crowley uses his exaggerated supervillain voice, forgets his own lines or messes them up or uses some of his ridiculous old-fashioned words which are so out of place in a fake conversation between two sleazy London businessmen that Crowley cracks up in turn. When they finally succeed Aziraphale has forgotten to activate the record button on Crowley’s mobile. (He was so impressed with that feature that Crowley had shown him how to do it. What else are you to do when an angel is interested in modern technology for the first time in 6000 years?) Now Aziraphale is moaning and apologising nonstop and Crowley can’t stop giggling. He exploits Aziraphale’s regret to tempt him to take a selfie together, something Aziraphale has always been very wary of because he knows Crowley has invented them.

Crowley doesn’t really mind doing the recording again. In fact, he’s all too happy to do it. He hasn’t had so much fun in… decades, possibly centuries. Maybe ever.

After they have recorded a semi decent version and sent if off to the BBC again, they decide to do some more: a short radio feature about the collective dismissal of all of Robert McBrain’s employees. (Crowley has so far made up the name of the manager and the company.) Aziraphale is much better when he just has to read a report in a serious voice and so they finish that one shortly before midnight. Then Crowley convinces all the London radio studios to broadcast a feature about a company and a manager no one has ever heard of. Meanwhile, Aziraphale convinces all the London newspapers to print a report in their next issue that he has just written.

When they meet again at Trafalgar Square, it has started to snow a little. Small snowflakes dance around them in the icy wind but the mulled wine miraculously does not run out and keeps them warm.

“I do wonder about those poor people who will hear in the radio or read in the newspapers that they have lost their jobs,” Aziraphale says remorsefully.

“No need to worry, angel. McBrain will soon make a statement that all of it’s been just this huge false report and no one’s really sacked.”

Aziraphale nervously nibbles on a mince pie. “Still. They must be so shocked to hear about it. And on Christmas! It will ruin their whole day…”

Crowley sighs because he already knows what is coming next.

“Couldn’t we do something to ease their shock a bit? I mean…” Aziraphale gives him a sad, imploring, hopeful look. “I have already done something which is a bit bad. Now you could maybe do something a little bit not bad in exchange?”

Crowley pulls a face. He knows he’s being played but he can’t _not_ do it. As much as Aziraphale doesn’t want to spoil Christmas for fictitious people who haven’t even really lost their job, Crowley doesn’t want to spoil _Aziraphale’s_ Christmas. “Alright, whatever. You have anything in mind?”

Aziraphale smiles gratefully. “I thought about writing them an encouraging letter. Maybe add a few sweets. Bless their homes.”

“You want to go to all of them?” What is a reasonably low number of employees? “All fifteen humans?”

“Fifteen? Earlier you said something about five hundred.”

“I definitely said fifteen.”

“Hm, all the better then, right? Come on, Crowley, you don’t even have to write the letters or deliver them. Just drive me there?”

Of course he agrees. While he pretends to use his mobile to hack the account of the fictitious company to find out who the employees are and where they live, Aziraphale retrieves notepaper and a fountain pen from the picnic basket and starts to write:

_Whatever you hear, do not be worried. Everything will turn out fine in the end!_

_Have a merry Christmas and may God bless you and your family every day of the year._

“Do you think this will do?” he asks Crowley.

“If I got an anonymous note like this, I’d probably freak out. – But then, I’m a demon,” he quickly adds when he sees Aziraphale’s worried expression. “Blessings sound like a threat to me. Humans might like it, though.”

Aziraphale nods and makes to write fourteen more of the ominous notes. Meanwhile, Crowley creates a new secret folder on his mobile (password: _fuckoff)_ and places all their failed recordings and the selfie into it.

It is an odd way to spend Christmas Night: driving through London and watching Aziraphale pull miraculous amounts of sweets from his picnic basket and bestow blessings to people who will have no idea what is going on when they receive their letters. As the company doesn’t exist and therefore no one will be worried to have lost their job when they hear the news, Crowley just aimlessly drives through London and makes his way up on the go. He stops at places that look like they could use some angelic blessings and confidently tells Aziraphale that this is definitely one of McBrain’s employees. The wind blows small snowflakes against the front screen and the Bentley plays “Thank God it’s Christmas” on a loop. During its twelfth rendition Aziraphale starts to softly hum along. The streets are unusually empty but Crowley still doesn’t go faster than his usual 90mph because, as ridiculous as it is, he likes it and he doesn’t want the night to end.

But eventually they have delivered the last letter.

“There’s still some mulled wine left,” Aziraphale says. “What do you say, we stop at St. James’s and drink it there?”

Crowley hums his agreement and drives them there. They are, obviously, the only ones in the park because no one else would go there at five am in the winter (and because its doors are closed to humans during the night). Aziraphale gets distracted by a squirrel that was frightened by Crowley’s presence. Crowley leaves him to it and finds a bench underneath a large tree where they will be mostly sheltered from the snow. He opens the basket which by now is almost empty. Aziraphale must have given out all the sweets with the exception of the box of chocolate truffles that Crowley had given him. There are also the angel shaped candles. Crowley ignites them, places them in the snow in front of the bench, and pours mulled wine into the thermos cap, which steams in the cold air. It looks almost cosy.

He sees Aziraphale a few feet away, kneeling on the ground, his eyes closed, his hands folded neatly – praying. Crowley hopes with all of his strange human heart that Aziraphale isn’t worried and doesn’t ask for forgiveness for what he has done. Because he _has_ had fun, has enjoyed himself and has laughed, and Crowley doesn’t want him to ask for forgiveness for his laughter.

Finally he joins Crowley on the bench. He primly folds his hands in his lap and looks at the angel candles in front of them.

“Sooo.” Crowley pushes the cap with mulled wine into his hands. “Pretty successful night for you, eh?”

“Hm?”

“Well, you thwarted my evil plan, distributed dozens of blessings throughout London… Guess they’ll be happy with you up there.”

“Oh. I hadn’t thought about it like that.”

Crowley shrugs and points at the box of chocolate. “Some chocolate as a reward?”

“Well, we certainly did work hard, didn’t we?” Aziraphale opens the box but then pauses. “You won’t get in trouble for this, will you? I mean, you didn’t exactly stick to the plan…”

Again he looks so genuinely worried and Crowley hates it. He wishes he could tell Aziraphale that there never has been any assignment, wishes they could agree on how much fun their little chaotic coup has been nonetheless, wishes he did not have to hide Aziraphale’s laughter in a password protected folder on his mobile. And that’s all these pesky Christmas feelings again. Wishing, longing, hoping – too much.

“It’ll be fine,” Crowley says to reassure Aziraphale. “You know that Hell doesn’t really understand earthly business. From their perspective, the job is as good as done. Come on, let’s devour these chocolates.”

Aziraphale of course does not so much devour as savour every bit of them. They pass the thermos cap between them and watch the candle light dance across the snowy ground. Crowley should be cold but it feels like the little candles, which defy the wind and refuse to burn down, the mulled wine passed between them and Aziraphale’s presence create a safe bubble of warmth around him.


End file.
